Senseless
by MMShadow
Summary: Dean's job has always been to protect Sam. So how is going to do that now? Summary sucks. Don't want to give too much away, but mostly hurt!angsty!Dean, protective!Sam. Okay, I'll say it, if it brings more curious onlookers: Blind!Deaf!Dean. Yes, that's right, both.
1. Chapter 1

**So, this idea wouldn't leave me alone, and I had a slight obsession at the time that I started it. Hope you enjoy and don't get too bored.**

**For those of you who do not like reading WIPs, like myself, this story _is _technically finished. (The only chapter that hasn't been beta read yet is the last one.) I will be uploading a chapter every day or two, depending on the response.**

**So, without further ado, thanks for giving this a try, and here you go! **

...

**Chapter 1**

"Dean."

What was that really annoying droning sound?

"Dean."

Seriously, he should check on that. Could be important.

"_Dean._"

Seemed like he'd been hearing it for an eternity. Or at least since—

"Hey! Dean, are you even listening at all?"

Oh, that's right, since Sam had started filling him in on the details of the hunt they were following up on in some random small town in Michigan. Again. Okay, he got it, thoroughness saved lives. But it also bored some older brothers nearly into a coma. Dean brought his wandering gaze back to his little brother sitting on the other bed, who looked like he was about to get up and whack him into paying attention.

"De—"

"Sam, I already know about the hunt, okay? People in their thirties are going deaf—or blind—overnight for no reason that anyone can explain medically, only to disappear days later and then show up again dead from dehydration. Sounds like our kind of job, we figure out what it is, how to kill it, yada, yada, yada, end of story." He finished with a wave of his hands before he leaned his elbows on his knees. Amused, he watched as Sam raised his eyebrows in exasperation.

Sam gave it a second, then,"You done?" Not waiting for Dean to answer, he countered his little 'rant' with a carefully controlled tone. "I was _saying, _we should go talk to some of the relatives of the victims. Maybe one of them saw something, or one of the victims mentioned something out of the ordinary before they died."

The older Winchester scoffed. "What, besides suddenly losing one of their senses?"

Sam's mouth pressed into a thin line. "You know what I mean, Dean."

He really didn't feel like talking to weepy loved ones that rarely gave them anything to go on, anyways, all blubbering in their grief. He could usually sympathize, but he really didn't feel up to dealing with them today. "Well, sounds like you got that covered. How about you get on that, and I'm going to hit the local bar down the street," he grinned as he jerked his thumb in that direction.

Sam's face was downright incredulous now. "You realize it's only two in the afternoon, right?"

Dean shrugged. "It's five o'clock somewhere, Sammy."

And, there it was, that infamous bitchy look. Mission accomplished. Dean smirked fondly this time to show he had his brother's number, and Sam huffed in annoyed but returned fondness. Dean got up to get his coat, because he had no doubt that Geek Boy already knew which relative they were going to visit first and where they lived.

He knew that all the hunts Sam kept finding for them was his way of trying to distract Dean, and probably himself, too, from his listlessness. Truth was, Dean hadn't felt like doing much of anything lately: hunting, charming women, talking. Not since their dad...

But the one thing he did feel like putting effort into was watching Sam's back, especially since his father's last words rang in his head all hours of the day, and most of the night. Whether it be looking out for demons, evil spirits, or overly-flustered family members in mourning.

Sam met him at the door and Dean followed him out to the car. He half-smiled behind the back of his little, not-so-little brother.

Yeah, he could watch out for Sam.

…

Three hours and six—yes, six—interviews later, plus library time, Dean slid into a booth opposite Sam at a local diner, weary but with a sense of accomplishment. It wasn't often they got so much information in one stretch. They now knew with almost certainty what, and whom, they were dealing with.

After receiving their menus and Dean briefly checking out the waitress appreciatively until feeling his interest settle, they started hashing out their findings.

They both leaned forward slightly in mirror of each other, mindful of listening ears. Sam began in a mildly excited voice only he could have after hours of interrogation. Dean inwardly made a face. College boy sure loved his learning. "So, it seems like all the victims had fathers who died when they were younger. Not only did all of them die around the same time, but—"

"They died the same way as the recent victims," Dean finished, nodding. "So, we looking at the late Warren Stiles being a vengeful spirit?"

Sam _mmm_'ed in affirmation, and Dean noticed a twinge of sadness cross his face at the reminder of the story they'd heard. "He was the first to die in that bout of killings thirty years ago. But he was deaf his whole life, not just a few days, and was bullied throughout his childhood, even into his adult years. There weren't any official records or reports, but there were rumors he was abused by his parents as a child as well." Sam paused to grimace. "The rest of the killings started up a few weeks after he died."

Dean picked it back up again. "He went missing and was found a week later, cause of death being starvation and dehydration, in a sealed off cellar behind his childhood house." He stopped when the waitress came to take their orders: Sam, a chicken salad sandwich, and Dean a bacon cheeseburger, extra onions. She took their menus, promised to be back soon with their food, and Dean resumed once she was out of earshot. "He was thirty years old when he died. You think that's why it's been thirty years since the last set of deaths?"

"That, and the fact that the children of those victims are old enough to have children of their own." Sam raised his shoulders. "Who knows? In thirty years, Warren will probably be back, killing them for their grandfathers' mistakes."

Dean leaned back. "Which were what, exactly?"

Sam tilted his head. "Well, you heard as well as I did. He was picked on a lot. Maybe the people that died were the ones that tormented him, maybe even killed him, if it wasn't his parents. We may never know, as they never found out for sure who did it." He shook his head, the hair that was usually parted these days brushing across his forehead. "Either way, he must have felt that they'd wronged him somehow and wanted them to suffer like he did."

"Then why make some suffer blindness and some deafness before he snatches them?" Dean wondered. "I thought he was just deaf." Yeah, _just. _

Sam's natural sensitivity shone in his eyes. "He was, but think about it, Dean. That cellar he was found in? I doubt much, if any, light got in there. It must have felt like he was blind, too, enduring day after day of being trapped in there. He dies, and now inflicts the same treatment on the bullies, and their children?" Sam moved his hands apart in a questioning gesture.

Dean conceded. "Yeah, makes sense." A thought crossed his mind. "Remember how many of the people we spoke to said that their loved one was found in a place they were afraid of? You know, dark, alone, isolated. It wasn't even always a closed off place; for one chick it was the middle of the woods outside of town."

It dawned on Sam now, too, as he realized what Dean was getting at. "You think that cellar was a place of...fear for Warren, before he died?" Answering his own question, he found himself frowning again. "Maybe...maybe as a kid his parents locked him in there for periods of time. Dark, silent, alone, and probably cold? And then dying there years later? Must have been horrible."

Not seeing a need to say anything, Dean didn't bother. The theory was plausible, and not the first time they'd heard of such things happening. Angry spirits were all born somehow.

Each lost in their separate, but most likely similar, ponderings, they both sat up when the waitress returned with their food, who smiled with a friendly, "Here you go, boys. Enjoy!" and left them to it.

Eating without really thinking about it, Dean spoke up again. "So, we find the grave and burn Warren, put him to rest, no more weirdo deaths, and we go on our merry way?" He noticed a glob of ketchup drip off his burger and with one hand used a fry to scoop it up in a smooth motion before popping it in his mouth.

Sam scrunched his nose at him and set down his sandwich. "The last person to be found dead was yesterday, and there are still two more people in line to be killed, Dean. If one of them hasn't gotten hit yet, they will any day now. The sooner we do this, the better. Even _if_ the people who killed or hurt Warren or whatever deserved to die, their children certainly don't." He picked his sandwich back up and finished it off, albeit more slowly than his brother's usual wolfish eating style.

Dean scrubbed a napkin over his mouth before throwing it on his plate and standing up to go pay their bill. With a gung ho grin that rang slightly false, a detail which Sam ignored, the older brother said, "Alright, Sammy, tonight we burn this mother."

Despite his show of over-enthusiasm, Sam huffed a laugh as Dean walked to the counter. A minute later, he stood up himself, left a few bills under the saltshaker, and followed his brother out into the cooling, Michigan evening.

…

As Sam was taking his turn digging in Warren Stiles' grave, Dean kept a lookout, clutching his salt shotgun in one hand, a flashlight in the other, and holding Sam's gun for him under one arm.

After a while and wanting to hear something other than Sam's labored breathing for a bit, Dean made a show of switching the flashlight to his other hand and shaking the one that was holding it. "Dude, hurry up, my arm is getting tired."

Sam glared up from the rectangular pit, the light bouncing off drops of sweat that spotted his face despite the northern-state chill, to see that mock impatience masked his brother's face. Knowing Dean was hoping to get a reaction from him, he didn't take the bait and kept digging. He was nearly finished anyways.

He understood Dean's need to fill the silence, though. Silence meant one was able to think about things, and God knew neither of them wanted to spend too much time doing that, not recently. Sam had been trying to get Dean to talk to him about their dad's death for months, wanting to help him cope, to go on living; needing the help himself. And time after time he would be rejected and shut out with Dean's "I'm fine, Sam, stop nagging" and "How many times I gotta tell you, I'm fine!"

Finally he had opened up, bared his soul and obvious guilt to Sam on that roadside, and Sam almost regretted how much he'd pushed him into it. But he didn't, because since then, things had been a little easier between them. At least his big brother was now willing to share some of the burden instead of letting it all sit on his shoulders. But that didn't mean either brother didn't still feel the gaping hole their father had left behind. Although, Sam couldn't fool himself; even though he missed his dad every single day, he knew that hole was more raw for Dean than for him, and probably always would be.

With a final _clunk_ he hit the coffin and tossed the shovel up out of the hole. He bent down to brush the remaining dirt off and opened the casket before climbing out, taking Dean's proffered hand.

Sam brushed his dirty and sweaty hands on his jeans and reached for the canisters of salt and lighter fluid.

That is, of course, when Warren decided to make an appearance.

Dean's barked "Sam!" brought him to attention, and Dean held out the second gun, also loaded with salt rounds, already aiming his own by the time Sam grabbed it.

The spirit—who looked not much older than Dean but was slightly emaciated and had a gray pallor underneath his sandy hair and tattered cloths—flickered in place and disappeared.

Dean swung around, his eyes scanning to catch any motion. After a moment of tense anticipation, he said to Sam, "Get burning, I'll blast him if he shows up again."

Sam gave a single nod and grabbed the two containers again, sticking his sawed-off in the back of his jeans for the moment. He started saturating the bones with the fluid while Dean circled the grave, his gun held at the ready.

Sam was just starting with the salt, and Dean was just starting to get twitchy for a target to shoot at, when the ghost appeared again. He was between the elder Winchester and the grave, facing Sam, who was on the other side.

Trying to avert his attention, Dean growled, "Hey, ugly!"

Warren spun around with a snarl, and Dean snickered, backing up, "I thought you were supposed to be deaf. Can you hear me now?"

"Don't dare to mock me, boy." The apparition moved with inhuman speed and was suddenly in front of him.

Ignoring him, "Good," was all Dean said before shooting the ghost point-blank. With an outraged cry, Warren dissipated.

With nothing blocking his view, Dean could see Sam had jumped over the grave when Warren had gone after him, ready to intercede. But Dean just waved a hand at him. "Finish salting and burn him already before he comes back."

Both keeping a wary eye and ear out, Sam had just finished seasoning the corpse and was taking out his lighter when Stiles showed up again, back to his position in front of Dean.

Before he could do anything, his gun went flying to his right. Dean cursed and tried taking a step back and saying, "Whoa, Warren, hey. I got nothing against you, man." He raised his hands and canted his head. "Except, you know, killing people who don't deserve it."

The spirit rejoined, "They must pay." He threw out his ghostly hand towards Dean. "_You _must pay." Before the hunter could react, his palm connected with Dean's chest and Dean instantly felt a jolt. He let out a short cry as it ran through his chest and up to his face within a split second. The next sensation he felt was his body flying backwards, until it hit a gravestone and he slumped to the ground, dazed and the breath knocked out of him. His eyes slid closed.

…

Sam saw Stiles appear, and again he was between him and his brother. He saw the ghost throw Dean's shotgun out of his hands and move in on him. The younger Winchester had drawn his gun, but didn't shoot for fear of hitting Dean. Instead he moved forward and to the left, away from the grave, hoping to get to an angle at which he could shoot so he didn't risk Dean being in the crossfire.

He vaguely heard Dean's undoubtedly snide remark, the spirit's rebuttal, and before he knew it Dean had cried out and was flying back into a headstone. He hit it hard with a gasp and slid to the ground, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Dean!" Letting out a silent prayer, Sam was running back toward the grave, the lighter now in his hand, and in another second, it was lit. He flicked the ignited Zippo into the hole and watched the resulting blaze flare up. He heard a ghostly shriek behind him, glanced back, and it faded to nothing. Silence.

Warren was gone.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to run to his brother just as Dean called out for him.

"Sam!"

He reached his side just when Dean's lids flew open. Sam gasped in shock.

A flat, grayish film had covered Dean's eyes. But, already, as he watched, it faded away, leaving Dean with a blank look in his bright, green eyes.

Dean had frozen, his eyes widening. Then he started to flail, and he yelled again, but it was strangled this time, and he was holding a hand to his windpipe. "_Sam!_"

Sam's heart had jumped into his throat, but he managed to get out, "Dean, man, right here. I'm right here."

"Sam, where are you?! Son of a—" His tone sounded angry, but fear was etched into his face as he struggled to get up.

Sam rarely saw Dean panic—only when his little brother was threatened or in danger. So seeing him start to lose it made him swallow thickly. He reached out and put his hand on Dean's shoulder to steady him.

The older hunter lashed out at the touch. "Get off me!" He had frozen again, though, and was breathing raggedly, fast on track towards hyperventilation. He started to shake.

"Dean, man, calm down. Please. It's me, it's Sam. Sammy." No response. Sam's own composure was wavering now. He was starting to suspect... He waved a hand in front of Dean's face. No reaction. With a terrified feeling, he clapped his trembling hands next to Dean's ears. Nothing.

Realization finally sunk in and horror washed over him, his heart shattering.

"No. Dean, no." _No no no no..._

Dean couldn't see..._or _hear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow, thanks, guys for the reviews! It's the only way I know how you actually feel about this story, so keep it up! Hopefully I keep you interested. ;)  
**

...

**Chapter 2**

The ringing in his ears drowned out all other sound, and his whole head felt like it was on fire. He didn't know how long he huddled there against the slab of rock before he caught his breath and the pain faded, besides the bruises he could already feel forming on his back and shoulders. His head cleared of the ringing soon after, and he was able to muster a thought. _Sam!_

He invoked out loud this time, "Sam!" as his eyes startled open.

Or, he thought he did. He went still. Why was it so dark all of a sudden? And why didn't his voice work? He had to get up and figure out what was going on, where he was, where _Sam_ was; his arms wavered as he tried to rise.

He put a hand to his throat and tried again. "_Sam!_" His throat vibrated as if he had spoken, but he still heard nothing. That's when he realized how deathly quiet—no, _silent—_everything had gone. _No, no... _"Sam, where are you?! Son of a—'' As much as he hoped he was making some sound, it would mean _he _was the one who couldn't hear his shouts. He couldn't remember the last time terror like this had come over him, at least not for himself.

He felt a hand close on his shoulder and instinctively swung out. "Get off me!" But he didn't feel his hand come in contact with anything and he started panting, panicking over the suffocating loss of control over the situation. _It's so dark... _Against his will, his body started to shudder out of fear, though now he kept himself stationary, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Dean could sense a presence near him, but it didn't feel threatening. _Sammy? _He reached out a hand, trying to stifle the tremors that wracked his whole body. Then a gentle, familiar hand touched his wrist, hesitantly, as if not sure how he'd react. "Sammy? Is that you?" He didn't really doubt now that it was his little brother, but he had to be sure.

The hand closed around his wrist, slowly pulling it up until he felt his hand brush against a cheek, an ear, then thick, longish hair. Dean gasped quietly in relief, smiling shakily as he lightly curled his fingers into the soft strands. _Yep, definitely Sam's girly hair. _ A flood of memories from their childhood deluged him: Sam refusing to get his hair cut military short like their dad wanted, Dean hugging his little brother to him after a nightmare, Dean stroking his hair back in comfort when he was sad or scared, Sam's ridiculous bangs always covering his eyes so he couldn't read them, until not too long ago, when he started brushing them to the sides...

Dean's half-smile faltered and fell. He was scared, and he hated it. He could almost hear his father's voice. _Suck it up, soldier. _He bowed his head at the reminder, took his hand back, and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, trying to force the darkness away.

A long arm—Sam's—wrapped around his shoulders while a hand settled on the knee he'd drawn up to himself. The manly hunter in him normally wouldn't allow such prolonged or obvious contact, but...but he needed _something _to anchor him to the real world. To let him know that he hadn't been supernaturally transported to some hopeless, empty void. Alone.

But he could practically feel the fear radiating from his brother, who must've been as scared about all this as he was. He straightened his neck, his back, bringing down his arms. He had to be strong for Sam, be the older brother.

That was really hard when he couldn't see. _Or _hear. He mentally cursed his helplessness.

The weight on his knee vanished to be replaced by a grip on his elbow, urging him to stand. He did, surprised when he was blindsided by a sudden bout of dizziness, and the arm over his shoulders tightened to keep him from keeling over. Great, was he gonna pass out now?

But the feeling passed quickly. His dignity was safe. For now. He tried not to dwell on that and instead seized the shoulder that was attached to the arm slung around him. He couldn't help but be comforted by the steadiness and assurance of Sam's presence. He was the only one he'd truly trust in this situation, besides maybe their dad. But even he had to admit than Sammy was far more patient with him than his dad would ever be.

Dean was tense as he felt his brother guide him out of the cemetery and to the car. He briefly thought about the unfilled grave and immediately decided he really didn't care right now. He trusted that the period of time between him getting whammied and Sam showing up was Sam torching the corpse. The authorities could puzzle over the defiled tomb themselves. They had to focus on how the heck they were going to fix him. Even thinking about this being permanent made his head spin.

No, wait, he was actually getting dizzy again. Sam's hand on his shoulder moved to the back of his neck and another to his chest. Dean shot out a hand and it smacked what he assumed was the roof of his car. That brought him comfort as well as the hands holding him up, and the vertigo slowly subsided.

Sam's hand was now rubbing the base of his neck, and he nodded to show he was okay. He was pretty sure he could talk just fine, but not being able to hear his own voice unsettled him, and he'd wait till he needed to. He couldn't fathom how Sam would be able to communicate with him, but they'd cross that bridge when they came to it.

Dean slid his hand down the door frame and gripped the handle to open the door. Sam's hold adjusted, and he helped Dean ease inside without hitting his head. Once he was settled back against the seat, the new bruising on his back announced itself again, and he winced.

His brother's hands were still on him, seeming reluctant to let go. He placed a hand on Sam's forearm and nodded wearily again, and after a moment, the car shook a little with the closing door. Another tilt of the car's frame announced Sam's arrival into the driver's seat, and seconds later the vibration from the engine rumbled through him. Dean frowned sadly when he realized he couldn't hear the Impala's purr. Wouldn't be able to drive her. His disappointment grew when he remembered his music.

He swiveled his head to the right, so he'd be staring out the window if he were able to see. His hands were clasped loosely in his lap; he wondered how he'd manage to get through the next few days...weeks?...God, he hoped it wouldn't last that long.

…

This was... This was bad. Terrifying. And Sam didn't understand. He'd made sure Stiles had kicked it for good; so why were his powers still affecting Dean? It actually angered him.

That along with the fact that the spirit had felt the need to render his brother both blind _and _deaf; it wasn't his usual M.O. He wanted to bring the ghost back just to ice him again. Maybe shoot him with rock salt a few times first.

Or maybe it was just fear again.

Sam had seen how quickly his big brother had calmed as soon as he'd known it was Sam with him. That alone had made Sam blink back tears. But he could still see how much all this perturbed Dean, and now he had to be the protector. It was about time, and he hoped Dean would let him. For heaven's sake, he was freaking _blind_ and _deaf. _If that didn't warrant showing a little weakness, nothing did. Sam was his brother. Didn't Dean know that he'd never think any less of him, no matter what?

He'd helped his newly deaf-blind brother navigate the graveyard and get to the Impala. Even though he knew his brother couldn't hear him, he'd murmured words of comfort to him the whole way. It made himself feel a little better...kind of, not really. His brother's apparent unsteadiness worried him, though, and he made a mental note to keep an eye on that so Dean didn't run into anything or fall and hurt himself.

Now Sam noticed that Dean's face looked crestfallen once he started up the car, and watched as he turned his blank gaze to 'stare' dejectedly out the window. Sam's heart broke a little more, recognizing that many of the sounds of comfort and _home _were lost to Dean. And he couldn't even see to make up for it. _I'll fix this, Dean. _He silently vowed. _I'll find a way to fix it._

Dean slowly twisted and wrung his hands in his lap. Hating to see his brother so unlike himself, so quiet and despondent, Sam reached over to touch his arm. Dean jumped a little at the unexpected contact, then turned his head back towards Sam's general direction. His emerald eyes were unseeing, but they still held so much emotion that Sam found himself swallowing back his own emotions.

Sam was speeding the whole drive out of town, like he was trying to run from what happened. He left his hand on his brother's arm the entire way, and Dean never shrugged it off.

…

Two hours later they pulled up to a motel. The younger Winchester figured this was far enough to be safe from being connected to a vandalized grave a few towns over.

He hoped Dean would realize he was just leaving to get them a room, and removed his stiff hand from Dean's arm. Dean shot him an anxious look before reigning it in, obviously trying to not appear so desperately dependent on the one with functioning eyes and ears.

Sam quirked an exasperated, if unseen, smile at his brother before running inside to quickly pay for a room for a few days. He returned only a few minutes later to see Dean restlessly bouncing his leg up and down and twisting his amulet in his fingers. He stopped and tilted his head when Sam opened his door and climbed in. Sam, once again, put his hand on Dean's shoulder, but only for a second as reassurance before he backed up the car to move closer to their room.

Once parked again, he got out to go to the trunk and retrieve their bags. Dean was already out of the car by the time Sam rounded the back with their duffels. The unsteady man had a hand placed on the top of the Impala to give himself a reference point.

Wanting to pretend as much as possible that nothing was wrong, Sam said, "Here, Dean," and pressed the strap into his brother's free hand, knowing Dean wouldn't want to feel completely useless. Dean wrapped his hand around it, confused for only an instant before comprehension lit his face, and his arm compensated for the weight.

"Our room is number 16," Sam declared as if not talking to a deaf man. Clutching only his elbow this time, Sam guided Dean forward, lifting his grip up to indicate for Dean to step up onto the curb. That small hurdle overcome, the younger brother stopped their shuffling gait to unlock and open the door. He urged Dean ahead of him, careful not to let him bang into the doorway on the way in.

They maneuvered over to the farther bed, and Sam noted that Dean stiffened when he seemed to realize this. Well, tough. There was no way Sam was letting his brother be more vulnerable to threat than he already was.

Sam huffed to himself. _Wouldn't Dean love to hear that. He hates being thought helpless. _Though it was unreasonable, he felt a sting of guilt at the thought. As if, even in his state, Dean couldn't still be dangerous.

Hunter though he was, Dean would never see, or hear, an attack coming. So Sam had to be his eyes and ears until they figured this out. He let Dean's knees hit the edge of the bed frame so he'd know where it was and saw Dean toss his bag forward onto the bed in a practiced move before turning to sit. Sam slung his own bag back onto the opposite bed and hurried back to the car to get the rest of their usual supplies.

After he closed and locked the door and set the bags on the table, he crossed over back to his own bed and sat across from Dean. He felt his breath hitch when he caught sight of him.

His brother looked so normal, besides the rigid posture and unmoving gaze, that Sam could almost pretend nothing had happened to him. When really everything was so, so wrong. Sam looked deeper, and Dean seemed so forlorn, disheartened, unsure what to do, but also managing to look angry at how little he could do for himself, hating to appear weak. Sam chuckled despite himself. _Dean always was a stubborn moron. Fights everything too much. _Whether it be using physical actions or simply through denial of a situation itself.

The younger Winchester placed a hand on Dean's knee, and Dean's hand moved to hover over his before setting it back down by his side.

Sam suddenly had an idea how to communicate with his senseless brother. It wouldn't work for long conversations but hopefully would work where shorthand was enough to get by. At least until he figured something else out. He reached forward and captured Dean's hand, trying to do it slowly so as not to startle him too much, and brought his own other hand up. He rationalized that this would be easier if he sat next to Dean and moved across the few feet to his brother's side, their shoulders and knees touching.

Dean didn't even tense at his proximity. Sam held his brother's hand flat, palm up, and brought his other hand over to their clasped ones. Using his finger, he slowly drew capital letters on his brother's palm.

_E-A-T-? _Never mind that it was three in the morning.

Dean's brow furrowed, and he shook his hand, indicating to do it again.

Sam repeated the motions and Dean perked up, understanding. He hesitated, then cleared his throat and uttered, "Uh, Chinese food?" raising an eyebrow as he did so.

Sam smiled warmly at him. Dean's voice was a little overly-loud, but it wasn't as if he could control his volume very well. Glad his improvisation would only have to go one way, for now, he drew a "Y" on Dean's hand to signify a "yes", hoping Dean would get what he was going for.

Dean grinned a little as if he knew Sam was smiling at him and nodded his gratitude. Sam wrote again, _I G-O. _

Dean frowned, knowing he had no choice. He sighed and shrugged. He muttered, "I'll just wait here, then," too quiet this time, but Sam could still make it out. The younger brother ran a hand down Dean's back once before standing up. Dean tensed at his absence.

Sam tried to think of a way to keep Dean from freaking out while he was gone. "Just a sec." He went to their bags on the table to look for something. He rummaged around and pulled out Dean's pistol and his favorite knife. Figuring they would have to do for the time being, he strode over to stand in front of Dean again. He set down the weapons for a second and pulled Dean's hand to him again, still refraining from grabbing too suddenly as he did.

Snorting to himself—he usually tried to avoid chat-speak—he spelled out, _B-R-B_, before adding a "15", telling Dean he'd be back in fifteen minutes max.

As Dean nodded, Sam let go of his hand to pick the weapons back up. He pressed the grip of the handgun into one of Dean's hands and the knife's hilt into the other. He smirked fondly when the older hunter became instantly more at ease, now that he was armed. At least Dean would now have a chance of defending himself in a close-quarters fight. Sam tried not to think about how Dean would have no warning of such an attack and started to wonder if he should just order in. But he'd seen the Chinese place down the street as they drove in and promised himself he'd be back in ten minutes. Food or no food.

Sam reached out and ran his hand over Dean's head from back to front in an affectionate, quick motion and actually laughed when his big brother scowled his disapproval of such a gesture.

Trying to ignore the distinct _wrong_ness he felt from leaving Dean here alone, he grabbed his jacket and rushed out to get food.

…

Dean knew that Sam was trying to make him feel better, not so defenseless, by giving him his knife and gun; but really, who were they kidding? Unless someone or something literally threw themselves at him and actually let him use his weapons, he couldn't protect himself like this.

How in the world was he supposed to protect Sam?

He shoved that thought down, knowing he would only work himself into a panic, what with Sam having gone out by himself.

_Chill out. Sam said he'd be gone no more than fifteen minutes. Knowing him, it'll probably be ten. _

Sitting there, rigid and anxious as all get out, he waited for what seemed like forever, though he knew it wasn't very long at all. In his state there was no way to gauge the passing of time, and the seconds ticked by agonizingly slowly. He counted each one. Of course, it didn't help that he'd have no way of knowing if Sam had returned or not until he let Dean know.

He was distracting himself by tenderly testing the bruises on his back that were, no doubt, colorful already, when he felt a hand on his bicep. Not being able to help the little jerk of surprise, he was startled into yanking his hand off his back. But relief washed over him now that his brother was back.

Except now Sam had noticed he was hurting some. Great. He just groaned in objection when he felt Sam's careful hand pull up the back of his shirt and freeze, unquestionably at the sight. Now Sam was probably beating himself up for not noticing earlier, and he'd be apologizing, getting all worked up... After another moment Dean decided that he'd had enough and he reached back to push Sam's hands away. "It's fine, Sam. I've had worse."

His petulant little brother smacked him lightly on the back of his head, most likely for not _telling _him that he was hurt. Dean almost laughed. As if they didn't have bigger things to worry about than a little black and blue on his back. Like his predicament. Or communicating.

Then Sam wasn't there for a minute, and he wondered what he was doing. He berated himself for starting to get a little panicky again. _Geez, how embarrassing. He's probably just getting the food out. _He wasn't really all that hungry, but he hadn't wanted to make Sam worry any more right now. He grappled with the weapons in his grasp so he could free one hand to find the nightstand. Locating it, he carefully set them down and waited for Sam.

And then Sam was back, getting Dean up to lead him to the table where he sat him down. A small box and a fork were pressed into his hands, and that was when he suddenly realized his request for Chinese food wasn't the best. It wasn't exactly the easiest or least messy thing he could've picked to eat when he couldn't _see _his food. But determined to act normally he stuck his fork into the box—_Got it on the first try, thank God—_and worked to get some rice and meat onto the utensil. Satisfied the fork had enough weight to it that there must be something attached to it, he brought it up to his mouth casually.

And missed.

He flushed hot when he felt the fork jab his lower lip and rice fell off, rolling down his chin. He prayed Sam wasn't just sitting there watching him eat or something, feeling the need to help. He sure wasn't going to let his little brother feed him like a little kid.

As if nothing had happened, he aimed a little higher and managed to get the remaining rice into his mouth. He ducked his head as he—more slowly this time—retrieved another forkful of food and was able to get it into his mouth without mishap. He blushed a little harder when he felt Sam pick up his rice box-holding hand to slide a plate underneath and just muttered a "Thanks." Man, this sucked. Out loud. He hadn't thought about how hard just freakin' _eating _would be. He tried hard not to imagine other previously mindless tasks that would now be too hard for him to accomplish on his own.

After a few minutes of silent—_duh—_eating and only a few more misses, he set down his food, feeling more discouraged. Some seconds later Sam had put a questioning hand between his shoulder blades, and he just nodded, humiliated that he needed help to get to his bed.

Once deposited there, Dean sat on the edge of the mattress and kicked off his boots. He stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, tossing them carelessly in the general location of his bag, before he felt around for the corner of the sheets so he could crawl under them. He wasn't surprised when his hand met another, which was holding up a fold of the blanket for him. Sighing wearily, he took it from the grasp and pulled it back, getting up so he could push all the blankets over. He lay down, wincing slightly at his sore back, and he rolled onto his side, facing the edge of the bed.

He closed his eyes, and it wasn't any darker than when he'd had them open.


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay, guys, lame! You let me down a little. I hate to be the author who begs for reviews, and you don't owe me anything, but... Pleeease? Pretty please, with Castiel on top? Even constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated. If I don't get any, I won't keep updating!**

**Just kidding, I worked on this whole thing much too long to not post all of it. But I might make you wait longer! So, tell me what you like, what you don't like, if I'm doing it wrong, if it's boring...**

**Anyways, thank you so much to those few of you who _did _review, you all get a cookie! This is a shortish chapter, but I hope it keeps you coming back.**

…

**Chapter 3**

The fact that he couldn't see Sam, couldn't hear him—or, anything—terrified him. He couldn't bear the thought of going to sleep, losing any more stimuli to the world. But at least if he was sleeping, he could dream. He could hear and see in his dreams.

Would he be like this long enough that his dreams became just...silence and darkness and mere touches, too? He shuddered at the thought. Of course, he'd have to fall asleep to know, and he was having a hard time doing that. It was impossible, actually. The subtle, constant background noises, like traffic or voices or birds that made up the quiet, weren't even there.

His spine twinged again, and he massaged it absently. It was too uncomfortable to lie on his back, and laying on his stomach, to him, was giving up any sort of defense he had left; it would make him utterly, one hundred percent exposed, and he felt so handicapped already.

How could he watch out for Sammy like this? It went completely against the grain, against his nature, not to, and now Sam was the one who would have to defend him. _That's so messed up. Who's the big brother here?_

Sam. It had only been a few hours that Dean had been like this, and already his little brother was so patient with him, his care and concern so obvious. When he touched Dean to help him, he even did it slowly so as not to startle him too much, since Dean never had any forewarning. He could just picture Sam's dewy puppy-dog eyes watching him struggle to make sense of everything. He felt so lost, and his brother was his lifeline to the outside world, to reality, when it felt like he was floating in space.

He strained to sense any sort of evidence of another person being there, knowing Sam was only a few feet away in the other bed, and was unable to. Nervousness twisted his gut, and he clenched his hands. He stubbornly didn't call for Sam, though. His little brother shouldn't have to hold his hand all the time; he was an adult, for God's sake. Not to mention a hunter.

Except he could never be a hunter in this condition. Maybe, if only his hearing had been taken, like Warren Stiles was _supposed_ to do. Yeah, he could adapt to that, using hand signals and always keeping his brother in his line of vision. It was less likely, but still somewhat possible, as well, if he'd lost just his sight. His hearing would've amplified over time, and he could use sounds to picture his surroundings, to an extent, and determine distances. But not like this, not ever. He was so freakin' powerless, he was practically an invalid, and that disgusted him. He couldn't help the pressure of the worry and uncertainty that built up inside him and threatened to overflow, and he curled inward on himself, trying to suppress it.

His distress somehow gave way to fitful dreams after a while.

_He saw Sam, heard him calling his name. Dean tried to run to him, but a wave of blackness and emptiness crashed over him, filling every part of him except for his father's voice in his head. _Watch out for Sammy, _and_, You have to save him, Dean, or you'll have to kill him, _and_, You have to protect him, whatever it takes. _Dean cried out, dismayed, _I'm trying, Dad, but I can't! I can't... M'sorry. _He could feel his father's disappointment, the darkness suffocating him. _Dad, m'sorry... Sorry, Sammy...I'm trying...M'tryin' to save you...

…

Sam tried to stay awake, knowing Dean couldn't sleep, and listened to him fidget in restlessness. He couldn't blame him. Seeing for himself how all this had thrown Dean was enough to put him on edge, his brother's agitation contagious.

But he was so tired from their late night, the cemetery that seemed like days ago, the drive after, helping Dean get situated, going out to get food... He finally fell asleep to the staccato of his brother's uneven breathing.

It seemed like only minutes later that he was roused by Dean's mumbling in his sleep. The distressed murmurs soon intensified to soft cries and—_God—_whimpers as Dean writhed in the sheets. He could make out some of the words: _Tryin', Dad...can't...s'rry...S'mmy... _Sam's eyes burned at the heart-rending sounds, and he sat up one elbow. Then Dean abruptly woke with a sharp intake of breath.

Sam immediately rolled off his bed to his feet and was kneeling at his brother's bedside as he flicked on the lamp. "Dean?" he implored. He continued with "You okay?" before mentally slapping himself. Instead he pressed a hand to Dean's heaving chest, forgetting to do it slowly. He could feel Dean's frantic heart hammering beneath his palm, as well as his shuddering breaths.

His heart and lungs stuttered, and Dean recoiled, disoriented and automatically rolling onto his back. He hissed, and his face screwed up as he landed on the slew of bruises. Sam eased a hand onto his forehead, Dean's spiky hair grazing the edge of his hand, and began softly massaging away the pained crease between the eyebrows with his thumb. "Shh, sorry. Sorry Dean," he soothed with both words and touch. He rubbed his chest once, urging Dean to take deep breaths and was warmed when Dean responded to his touch, his inhalations steadily slowing.

For the first time, Sam found himself wishing he had psychic powers like Andy. Of course, not to coerce Dean to do his will. Never would he consider doing that. But, just to be able to _talk _to Dean. He didn't insult either of them by not believing he was the only one Dean would trust inside his head. Maybe. At least not to take advantage. _Well, when I'm not pissed at Dean for some reason, anyway_, he mused.

It wasn't until a couple minutes later, when he removed his hand from Dean's forehead, that Sam realized Dean had flung out an arm to tightly clamp his hand on the crook of Sam's neck, as if desperate for the connection. Like he needed to be grounded. Another minute, and Dean had taken his hand back to drag it over his mouth and chin with a rusty sigh. He opened his eyes gradually, before surprising Sam with a short-lived smile. His voice was scratchy when he mumbled, "How will I ever pick up hot chicks, now, huh, Sammy?"

A breathy laugh burst out of Sam, his shoulders shaking a bit from the laughter. He could tell when his brother was just trying to relieve the solemnity of a situation, and it worked. It made him feel even better when his brother's grin widened marginally at the vibration, obviously knowing what it was. Sam shook his head. Only his brother.

The younger brother relocated his hand from Dean's chest to his arm, letting his thumb rub lightly over the smooth skin. There were still a few grooves in Dean's forehead from the pain his back was causing him, and Sam got up long enough to retrieve some Tylenol and a bottle of water. He set the bottle on the side table and sat down by Dean's hip. He picked up his brother's wrist and dropped the pills into his hand. He slipped the arm with the cast around Dean's shoulders and helped him sit up just enough that Dean could tip the pills into his mouth and chase it with a gulp of water, which he insisted on doing himself.

When he had taken the bottle from Dean and set it aside, Sam lowered Dean back down onto his side. As soon as he was situated, Dean shoved Sam's arms off with a grunt of indignation. Sam rolled his eyes, clapped a hand to Dean's calf, and after switching off the light went back to his own bed, where he sat for a moment instead of lying down right away.

Sure enough, within a couple minutes Dean was already stirring and twitching again, clearly uneasy with nothing familiar to give him reprieve. Sam felt gloominess creeping in on him again and he silently got up to sit on the floor by Dean's bed. He carefully reached out and laid a hand on Dean's outflung arm to graze his thumb back and forth in a consoling motion like before.

Dean instantly relaxed and stilled, his head rolling towards Sam. He slid a hand under his pillow, let out one long breath and what Sam could've sworn was a mumbled "Bitch", and soon sunk into relatively peaceful sleep.

Sam's mouth turned up and he leaned his head back against the night table, closing his eyes and whispering, "Jerk." Comforted himself, he didn't remove his hand from Dean's forearm, but he stilled his thumb.

His last thought before slipping into unconsciousness was, _We'll figure this out, big brother. I promise._

…

Five hours later, Dean found out how much fun it was to wake up when it felt the same as being asleep. He was pretty sure he was part of the waking world, though—his full bladder told him so—so he lay there, not moving for a couple minutes. He waited because it was only a matter of time before—

A hand rested on his shoulder, and he could feel the edges of a cast. Using the pressure of his brother's hand as a point of reference, he sat up, groaning and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He hoped he didn't sound too off when he grumbled, "'Time s'it, S'mmy?"

He could feel Sam's arm twist but remain anchored to him as, he assumed, Sam checked the clock. His hand was grasped, and his shoulder was released so that "9:17" could be written on his hand. Dean grunted acknowledgment, then turned his head straight and mumbled, "Bathroom?"

Sam's hand squeezed his before sliding up to his elbow and guiding him up. They shuffled forward, right turn, shuffled some more, and then Sam was lifting his arm to place it against a door jam. He urged Dean forward just ahead enough that his feet knocked against something smooth and hard, unmistakeably the toilet.

Pushing Sam away, he felt behind him until he caught the door and edged around it so he could close it most of the way. He kept his hand on the wall the whole time and managed to get through the ordeal, though having to improvise some. But there was no way he was going to let Sam help with this, as much as Sam wanted to be a mother hen about the whole thing. Not while he was conscious, anyway.

Ignoring the fact that Sam had been right outside the door, Dean faced him—hopefully—and meekly requested, "Help me start a shower?" He'd hoped to put this off, but he was still dusty from his little run in with a headstone, and hot water would do wonders for his back. He was determined to do this himself, as well; he refused to ever allow Sam to...to bathe him. Note above: "not while he was conscious."

Putting that out of his mind as quickly as he could, he waited as Sam slid past him and presumably turned on the shower, got the things he'd need, a towel ready, etc. His assumptions were confirmed when warm water was flicked on his face, Sam's way of telling him it was ready for him.

Dean scuffled forward, able to tell that Sam was hovering even if he didn't touch him. His toes hit the edge of the tub, and he waved Sam off so he could undress. Giving Sam enough time to leave the bathroom, he started to strip, keeping a leg pressed against the tub so he didn't lose his bearings. He turned haltingly and lifted his foot until it cleared the wall of the bathtub and stepped inside to a spray of perfect-temperature water. Dean sighed in pleasure at the soothing stream, and stood there a couple minutes to let it soak in.

He'd been tired enough in the past that he'd gone through many of the motions of taking a shower with his eyes closed, so he thought he could do it without too much trouble. It was actually harder than he'd thought, even though after groping around a bit he found that Sam had lain out a bottle of shampoo, a bar of soap, and a washcloth for him. It just unnerved him that he couldn't even hear the sounds of water hitting his skin, the floor of the tub; he could only feel it. The silence was deafening. And wasn't that some fun irony right there.

Who was that one chick who'd been deaf and blind? Helen Keller? If Dean remembered correctly, she'd gotten sick when she was a baby and lost her sight and her hearing all in one clean sweep. He couldn't imagine living more than a few days like that, much less pretty much your whole life. What a lonely hell that must have been. His limited experience confirmed that it was.

But she had somehow learned sign language, using touch alone to feel the gestures people would sign in her hands. How she had learned enough to make complete, recognizable sentences was beyond him. Didn't she become a teacher or something like that? Dean shook his head in awe. Man, if a poor, sick little girl could grow up to achieve all that, surely he could suck it up and deal. Especially since he had a brother like Sam.

That was another thing. He knew Sam would help him through this, didn't expect less, because he would do the same. But if this was permanent... He didn't want his little brother to have to learn a whole new language for him; he didn't want to be a burden to him for the rest of his life. Even besides that, the idea of trying to learn enough signs to communicate solely through touch was daunting. The prospect of learning Braille...even if Sam did, he wasn't sure _he _had the patience for that. But Sam would still stay, do it all, for him; he was certain of that, and that's what he was afraid of.

Dean reprimanded himself. _Get it together, Dean. It hasn't even been a day, and you're already giving up._ He had faith in Sam. That he would figure it out. But that didn't mean he wanted to make it any harder for Sam in the meantime.

Sighing, he finished up and yanked the shower handle down in the universal motion to turn the water off. He shoved the shower curtain aside and hesitated before remembering earlier he'd felt the towel Sam had left for him, folded on the floor by the side of the tub.

A hand on the wall, he was about to gingerly step out when a wave of dizziness hit him, causing him to sway forward. He automatically tried to take a step to catch himself but misjudged. His foot caught on the top of the fiberglass barrier, and, unbalanced, he lost his grip on the wall.

An embarrassing yelp escaped from his mouth as he pitched forward in a tangle of limbs before he slammed down into a field of pain.

...

**Review, please!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Guys. Guys. _Thank you _for all the kind reviews! I was blown away. Please, please, don't stop, your reviews keep my spirits up!**

**Onward!**

…

**Chapter 4**

Sam chewed on a thumbnail distractedly as he fought the irrational urge to run into the bathroom and check if Dean was okay. He was scarred enough already, and he'd left the door cracked so he could hear if his brother needed anything. Still, that didn't reassure him all that much.

He had his laptop out and their dad's journal spread on the table, trying to find some sort of reversal spell or something that could change Dean back to normal. He'd promised Dean he would fix it, so he would find a way.

But so far nothing had turned up. At least, not anything that wasn't specific to a certain enchantment or creature of the night. Despite his researching skills, a lot of his Internet searching just mostly revealed cheats to video games and phony mumbo jumbo, and it frustrated Sam to no end.

He needed an outlet for his bottled-up energy soon, or he'd be bouncing off the walls. He started to tap his fingers against the table in no particular pattern. His constant straining for any sounds of distress from Dean's direction was making him edgy and impatient.

Sam continued his finger-tapping for another minute before a light bulb came on in his head, and he was mystified that he hadn't thought of it earlier. A different way to communicate with his brother. He beat out an "A" on the tabletop with his pointer finger, then a "B", followed by a "C". It had been a long time since his dad had taught him Morse code, but if he still remembered, then surely Dean did. It would be tedious, and they still wouldn't be able to talk as freely or verbosely as before, but it beat sticking to short and abbreviated words drawn out slowly in his brother's hand.

Eager to try this new form of communication, it was fifteen minutes later, and he was seriously considering if he should check on Dean, when he heard a shout from the other room. That was followed by crash and a tremendous _thud._ Sam nearly knocked over his chair in his scramble to the bathroom.

"Dean!" He banged open the door and his heart stopped when he caught sight of his big brother sprawled on the floor, legs twisted, and head turned the other way. For one horrible second Sam thought his brother had broken his neck. But then Dean was moaning and starting to rise up on his elbows and knees, clenched fists sliding on the linoleum.

Sam let out a tremulous, "Dean," and was kneeling at his side, stretching over his brother's back to snatch the towel. He quickly draped it over Dean, hoping to save him some face. Sam caught and turned him as one of his brother's arms collapsed beneath him. He propped his slippery shoulders and head on his bent legs and rested a reassuring hand on his chest. "That's it. Breathe through it, bro," he intoned nonetheless to unhearing ears, biding his time until Dean recovered his composure.

Dean obviously wasn't too hurt or out of it, because only a minute later red was creeping up his neck as he became more aware of the situation. He moaned again, this time in mortification, and swatted Sam's hand from his chest as he sat up, holding the back of head. He tightened the towel around his hips and strove to stand. He flailed a hand out and it caught the muscled shoulder of his brother, who'd moved around to face him. "M'okay, Sam. Just had a klutzy moment, is all."

Sam snorted, _Yeah, sure,_ and braced his own hands on both of Dean's shoulders, holding him at arm's length as they straightened up.

Dean stopped him then, before they could move anywhere, as if he wanted to say something. He bit his lip and 'looked' at his feet, then rasped, "Sam, you should go."

Sam blinked, then squeezed Dean's shoulder. _Okay... I realize he's embarrassed, who wouldn't be? But I should at least—_

As if sensing Sam's confusion, Dean clarified, "Like, _go, _go. Leave me here; take the car... It's not safe for you if you have to keep watching me every second of the day. It's too much of a distraction, and you could get hurt."

That...that was so far out of left field that Sam didn't know how to respond at first. His jaw had dropped, and he was pretty sure he had a deer-in-the-headlights look. That was before, almost without warning, anger and hurt wiped the look off his face to be replaced by one of incredulous fury.

Not caring that Dean couldn't hear him and in need of the release, he bellowed, "What the HELL, Dean?! You think I would just, what, ditch you and take off? Leave you here to fend for yourself? Because _I _could get hurt if I _stay_?! You just frickin' tripped in the _shower. _Don't you ever think of yourself? You're all I have left, you stupid... God, you're my _brother,_ I wouldn't—" More hurt than he would say, even if Dean were able hear him, he cursed, and it took all he had to restrain himself from shoving Dean onto the closed toilet seat; rather...dropping him instead.

He noticed that Dean had picked up on the rage pouring off him and looked unbelievably tired, although not surprised at Sam's reaction. Several shades of contrition painted his expression now.

"Sorry, Sammy." It was almost a whisper.

Sam drug a hand through his hair, the appendage still quivering from his anger, but it was already receding, leaving Sam feeling as worn out as Dean looked. He should've seen this coming, but it still shook him how soon it had come up. Though, really, what else should he have expected from his selfless brother? And Dean probably had never believed Sam would actually leave him, even if he thought this was all so _inconvenient _for his little brother. But he acknowledged that Dean had had to try, even understood it; Dean had to put the idea out there. Didn't mean that Sam approved of it or didn't think his brother was an idiot for hoping he would leave. Then again, he probably didn't really want Sam to go either, was just too proud to ever admit it.

One hand still on Sam and one clutching the towel around his waist, Dean waited for any sign from his brother. Sam released a lungful of pent-up breath and patted the side of Dean's neck with one hand before letting go. "You're such an unbelievable jerk, you know that?" He stood up. "Back in a minute." Glad to have blown past that argument, he satisfied himself that his currently-impaired brother seemed to not have hurt himself too badly in his little tumble. He strode out the door to get some clothes from Dean's duffel bag, shaking his head at dense, headstrong, inane, tenacious, noble, loyal older brothers.

…

Dean sat on the toilet, burning with leftover shame that he apparently couldn't even get out of the shower without face-planting, as well as regret for what he'd said. Well, more for the fact that he had clearly hurt Sam's feelings than for the offer he'd put on the table. He hadn't imagined Sam giving any other answer, really, knowing what he himself would say to a crap request like that.

Vaguely wondering where Sam had gone, he reached behind him to snag another towel from the rack above the toilet and started drying off his hair and arms.

He was running his fingers over his head to brush his hair into its traditional spikes when he felt a soft weight settle onto his lap. He identified the pile as fabric of some sort. _Clothes, duh. Sam went and got you your clothes. _"Thanks," he sighed and got to work distinguishing between the different pieces of apparel. T-shirt, flannel button-up, jeans, boxers, socks...

Shooting Sam a grateful look, the older Winchester shooed him out, knowing he could do this himself, remembering many nights of dressing in the dark. Hoping that in a last-ditch fit of annoyance Sam hadn't given him a red shirt along with blue plaid or something like that... Wait, why should he care; the spirit had blinded him, not turned him into a girl, right? He snorted to himself and shook his head. Anyways, he managed to tug on his clothes, keeping all the tags in the back. It went slowly, though, as he tried not to overwork even more newly-bruised muscles.

Finished, he made it out the bathroom door without any disasters and was doggedly making his way in what he hoped was the direction of the table; he barked a "No!" unerringly, a moment before Sam could touch him. He felt a small triumph when he stubbed his toe on the leg of a chair and caught himself before he could stumble. He fumbled onto the seat with a sigh of relief, and he felt around on the table. His fingers came in contact with a keyboard and screen—the laptop—and then a smooth, curved surface that stirred when his fingertips brushed it—the pages of his dad's journal.

Just to make sure. "Last chance. You sure you don't want to take off, Sam?" Also, it would piss him off. "Might be easier to find a way to fix this without me in the way all the time. You could always come back, you know...if you want."

His hand was grabbed roughly and _N-O__**.**_was drawn on his palm, emphasis on the period. Dean shot him a smirk. _Thought so_. To be honest, he was profoundly grateful for his brother's solid devotion.

He sat there for a few minutes, aimlessly flipping pages of the journal, not sure what to do. Man, being blind and deaf was sure going to be boring. TV, radio, and reading were all out of the question, as well as driving. What else was he supposed to do to fill his time?

He jerked his head up when fingertips brushed the top of it. He turned his attention to where he thought Sam might be standing. A gun and cleaning rag were pushed into his hands, and he brightened a little. _Good thinking, Sammy._ He was able to take apart and clean any one of his weapons in his sleep, and he certainly could now. It would give his hands and mind something to do for the time being. Trusting that Sam would've tripled checked to ascertain that the gun wasn't loaded, he pulled the clip back and got to work.

…

Watching Dean do something that occupied him for a couple hours rather than just sitting there listlessly and staring blankly into space actually took the edge off of Sam's own restlessness. He found himself glancing over the top of his laptop every minute or so, monitoring as Dean field-stripped each firearm that Sam gave to him—after making absolutely sure there were no bullets in any of the chambers or clips, of course. The older hunter thoroughly polished each part by feel—twice—before expertly fitting them back together perfectly until there was a neat row of gleaming guns across the table. Sam's brother could be OCD like that.

When Dean was done with the last one, he set it down and raised his head expectantly. Sam blinked at him for a second before jumping up. "Oh! Right. Uh..." They didn't have any more weapons in the room; he'd only brought the one bag in. Abruptly recalling his idea about Morse code, he decided to try it out now.

He crouched next to Dean and took hold of his wrist, noting with gratification that his brother didn't even flinch in the slightest this time. Still using shortened phrases to make it easier to decode, he tapped out with his fingers on the inside of Dean's wrist, _"Need 2 go 2 car. Understand me?"_

As soon as he'd started, he'd seen Dean concentrate on the rhythm of the beats, short and long, slowly unfurling the message in his mind. When Sam had finished, the older Winchester peered up at him—well, about a foot to his left—with raised eyebrows, appearing impressed. A fleeting expression that Sam, feeling his ears flush, could only interpret as pride flashed across Dean's face.

"Wow, Sammy, you figure this out on your own?" he croaked. "Knew your training would come in handy someday." Dean beamed at him.

Ignoring the fact that Dean's voice was somewhat off-pitch, Sam just squeezed his brother's wrist in joy, gleeful that he could talk with him a little more effectively now. Adjusting his grip, he thumped out another message with his index finger, "_Goin 2 car now. Back in a flash."_

Dean just patted his casted arm in acknowledgment and slipped his hand out of Sam's grasp to wait patiently. Or impatiently; Sam wasn't sure if 'patience' was in his brother's vocabulary. Then he reminded himself how his brother could wait in silence for hours before attacking a monster at just the right moment.

Sam determinedly held on to his good mood and quickly slipped out of the motel room to go to the trunk of the Impala. On his way to the car, he noticed the grove of trees on the border of the parking lot, and an idea started nagging at him. Taking a quick glance around, he fished the keys from his pocket and opened the trunk lid, followed by the false bottom, and still the notion wouldn't leave him alone.

Finally, after digging out a bundle of hunting knives for his brother to clean—hopefully he wouldn't slice open a hand—he closed the back end of the car and set the bag on the ground by the rear tire. His long legs carried him across the lot and he arrived at the group of trees.

Starting to look around in hopes of finding something that would work, Sam scanned the ground methodically. Just when he was about to give up, knowing Dean would begin to wonder what was taking him so long, he spotted a long, straight, dry branch that had broken off at some point. Triumphant in his search, he picked it up to examine it, snapping off some small branches that jutted out from the sides. Yeah, this would work. It was eroded and smooth enough that someone would be hard pressed to get any splinters from it.

Hefting the stick up so that he held it by the middle, Sam made his way back towards their room, snatching up the bag on the way. As he entered the room, he wondered if he should try to find a way to let Dean know he was there without having to go and physically touch him, which usually only served to startle him much of the time. Especially if Sam had been out of contact for a while.

Deciding they could talk about that later, Sam dropped the bag of knives on his chair distractedly in his eager to get to Dean, who, frankly, was starting to look a bit agitated. Sam touched his forearm and ignored his brother's sharp inhale to slide his hand down to Dean's. He placed the staff into Dean's hand and waited until Dean folded his fingers around the dead branch.

Sam watched Dean's puzzlement grow as he tried to figure out why Sam had given him a stick and not another weapon to clean. He studied it with his hands, which ran over the length of the inch-wide pole, fingers passing over the knots and grooves of the wood. Then his face clouded with cognizance to be replaced by growing vexation. But his voice was a facade of barely controlled irritation. "Sam. What is this?"

All of a sudden, Sam became unsure of his decision and hesitated; he'd just wanted to help. Give Dean another option besides being led around whenever he needed to walk even just a few feet. He even justified it with the fact that he hadn't gone out to get his brother an actual blind-person cane, not that he knew where he'd be able to get one around here.

Dean interrupted his internal musings, "Sam! Did you give me a freaking _walking stick? _Seriously? It's not like I'm some old geezer with a screwed up hip!" His voice was slightly too loud now, not that he would be able to know that. He probably wasn't going for calm and collected anymore anyways. "Tell me, Sam!" He held out his arm, demanding an answer.

Sam knew Dean was only overreacting a bit because he was on edge, scared this was long term. Rushing to make amends, Sam complied and tapped, "_Cane. To help get around, not bump in 2 things." _It took the younger brother a minute to tap out his explanation, and sat back when he was done to brace himself for Dean's response. He knew that doing this was like admitting Dean could be in his condition for a while, but why not make it a little easier in the meantime? This way his brother could salvage some semblance of independence, just until they figured it out. _I will _not _let this be permanent, Dean. Just humor me. Please, _Sam silently implored.

To his astonishment, Dean finally acquiesced with a disgruntled, "Fine."

Sam grinned earnestly and patted his brother's hand to indicate to turn it over. When he obeyed, Sam messaged, "_Practice?_"

Dean clenched his jaw mulishly and shrugged. He didn't like it, but it wasn't a 'no' either. With that, Sam got up to clear things off the floor and out of the way so his brother would have less to trip on.

…

Sam helped Dean practice with the makeshift cane for over an hour until his brother seemed to get a the hang of navigating the room. Eventually, Sam even purposely set obstacles in his brother's path so he could learn to identify and sidestep them. Dean also counted and memorized the number of steps it took to get from his bed to the bathroom, or to the table, and even to Sam's bed and the door. Most of the numbers were in the single digits, as small as the motel room was, and not that hard to commit to memory.

Sam was always hovering just inches away, ready to alert Dean in case he was about to collide with something, until the irritated older hunter just growled at him, "Lay off, Sam!" And then the scolded younger brother just fidgeted on his bed and observed guardedly.

Finally, he'd practically mastered the tiny space and Dean wanted to give it a rest, complaining that his gurgling stomach was 'eating him from the inside.'

Ecstatic about the results of his little proposal and proud of Dean for taking this all in stride, Sam was happy to do that for his big brother and was soon out the door to carry out the errand. He returned twenty minutes later with a couple of hot sandwiches—along with some cold ones that would keep for later—and some french fries for Dean. He figured they were both relatively easy foods for someone lacking sight. He also indulged in a piece of apple pie for Dean, hoping it would cheer him up despite its messy tendencies.

After Sam swore to Dean he wasn't just sitting there watching his brother eat and he pointedly looked away to give Dean some privacy, the prideful Winchester dug in. He commended Sam for getting his favorite kind of sub via a hum of appreciation. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught that Dean accidentally jabbed himself in the corners of his mouth with fries a few times, but didn't think much of it as his animal of a brother devoured everything within fifteen minutes, regardless. Only a few stray scraps of sandwich and fries had ended up on the floor, which Sam discreetly picked up and threw away along with their wrappers. Globs of pie had managed to all fall back onto the tin plate, and Dean had scraped it spotless.

Both full and content, Dean used his newfound cane to find his own way to the bathroom. When he shuffle-stepped back to the table, Sam set him up cleaning his hunting knives, entrusting them to his blind brother in hopes that the routineness of the activity would save Dean from chopping a finger off. Nevertheless, Sam resolved to rush through the shower he desperately needed—as Dean himself pointed out with a turned-up nose—in order to get back.

The hunter was still sharpening and polishing the blades when Sam emerged in a cloud of steam, and he grabbed his laptop off the table to relocate to his bed. He still kept a wary eye on Dean from across the room as he researched some more, his findings fruitless. They passed the afternoon in much that same manner, with a break every now and then for a short conversation between them, as well as to snack on some chips and beef jerky Sam had dredged out from one of their bags.

Even though it was still early for them, Dean finally set down his last machete and announced he was tired. Little did Sam know it was partly Dean nicking himself a few too many times that he was tired of. And that the incessant dark and silence in his head induced an undeniable lethargy in him.

Before the younger brother could get up, the older had retrieved his cane and started sweeping his way to the bed, which was really only a few steps, (three, to be exact.) He sunk to the mattress, removed his over-clothes, and curled up on top of the covers.

None of his online explorations having yielded any promising solutions, Sam deduced that he might as well turn in, too. After checking the wards in the room, he copied the motions his brother had completed a few minutes earlier and was preparing to climb into bed when he spotted Dean's stiffness for what it was.

Both brothers neglected to mention the fact that Sam had to stretch out in the space behind Dean, a few fingers in contact with the back of his shoulder, in order for Dean to be able to relax into sleep.

…

**Feedback, you say? Hit me with your best shot. Seriously, fire away!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Again, thanks for all the uplifting reviews! I'm glad you think that I've captured the situation well, and I hope not to disappoint as the story continues.**

**This one's pretty long, but I didn't feel like splitting it up because a) it would make for two relatively short chapters, and b) the first 'half' would be just a filler chapter. So, here's a nice long one for you!**

…

**Chapter 5**

Awakening was a gradual process, the shift from sleep to consciousness barely noticeable. Still-vivid dreams dissolved into nothingness and before Dean realized he was waking up, he was awake. Only the added sense of touch, different from the dreaming world, was what gave it away. He sighed, curling his fingers in and out on the bed sheets, feeling the cheap texture.

Then the previous night came back to him, and he grimaced. Sam had ended up on his bed—he'd felt the dip on his right side—and he'd fallen asleep to his brother's hand resting on his shoulder. Well, they weren't going to be talking about that any time soon. It rankled to be so dependent, but...he'd been struggling to nod off again, and the skim of Sam's fingers had anchored him to the physical world when all other stimuli were missing. It was more than his ego could handle to ask his brother to do something like that every night, but, hey, if his little brother did it willingly and without making a big deal about it, he could let it slide.

Speaking of which... Dean stretched out his arm to find...empty space. So, apparently Sam was already up, or maybe he'd moved back to his own bed during the night. _Wait. _His hand actually brushed something, and it only took him barely a second to determine that it was his cane. He huffed in amusement. _So considerate, Sammy. _

Just now becoming consciously aware of the fact that his back didn't hurt quite as bad, he rolled towards to edge of the bed, cane in hand. He righted himself and planted the walking stick on the floor, heaving his body up with still-sleepy muscles. Sam still having not made an appearance, so to speak, Dean stretched his limbs for a minute.

"Sam?" He didn't know whether his call was loud enough to elicit a response, and that killed him. Dean chewed on his lip a moment before shrugging, assuming Sam was out getting something. He made it to the bathroom and back in one piece, using the wooden rod as a guide, though by now he pretty much knew the layout of the limited space by heart.

He was standing uncertainly by the table—he was pretty sure that's where he was, anyway—when a hand touched his chest. Using the front of his shoulder this time, long fingers beat out, "_Breakfast?_"

Dean drawled in what he hoped was a casual tone, "Sure," and extended an arm to grab hold of and plop into a chair. A handful of seconds later he was handed a wrapped deli sandwich, cold this time, and he worked a minute to snag a fold of deli paper and peel it down.

Munching on the slightly-dry sub, the young hunter wondered what he was going to be able to do today so he didn't go crazy with boredom. He'd pretty much exhausted all his weapons yesterday, not leaving any more to be cleaned until they were used again. He could...practice with the cane some more. Dean scowled to himself at the idea. There was only so much of this rat hole to explore, not to mention they'd pretty much covered it the day before. It wouldn't be too long until he'd end up throwing the stick at the wall out of sheer ennui. With his luck, he'd probably break something important.

Shoving the last remnants of the sandwich in his mouth, he crumpled up the paper and chucked it in a random direction. He got a swat from what he assumed was a newspaper for that, and he smirked sardonically. "Hey, I could use a glass of water. Please." He didn't have to wait very long until a cool cylinder was nudged into his hand, and he circled his fingers around it. He got a good grip before tipping it to his lips, taking painstaking swallows so as not to splash the water all over his face.

Setting the glass down, Dean wracked his brain for something to do. A few endless minutes of knee bouncing, then, "What time is it?" he felt the need to ask. Instead of Morse code, Sam just cradled his hand and drew out "9:33." _Still too early_; he wanted to get his mind off his boredom. Trying to come off as carefree and not-at-all high-strung, Dean questioned, "Sooo, Sammy, where were you a little bit ago?" _How come you weren't here when I woke up? _he didn't add out loud.

There was a moment when it seemed Sam wasn't going to answer, then, hesitantly, he dot-dashed on Dean's wrist, "_Called Bobby._"

Dean wasn't sure why that surprised him, but it did. "Really? Why?"

Fingers beat out against his vein, "_Help research, stupid. Find way 2 fix u._" Dean scrunched his eyebrows at the shorthand explanation.

"He's not coming here, is he?" he queried warily.

"_Told not 2 come. Just 2 call._" Sam paused, fingers lingering on his forearm as if wondering whether he should ask if Dean wanted Bobby here.

Dean was actually relieved, though. As much as he liked Bobby and would feel better with his help figuring this out, he had the feeling that another presence here would just confuse him. At present, Sam was all the help he needed, what with the careful touches and thoughtful gestures like the cane, helping him fall asleep... Aaaand, the less he dwelled on the last one the better, but it didn't change the fact that having his brother here was enough. Having a third person here crowding his space, making him jump at anything and everything unexpected, would just put him on edge even more than he already was.

He let Sam know, "Good. That's fine. Tell him 'hi' for me when he does."

His brother just squeezed his arm a second and let go. After some quick thinking, Dean stopped him, not sure how far away his brother had already gone. "Uh, hey, Sam, wait." A heartbeat later, Sam's hand brushed his upper arm to show he was there and listening. Dean licked his lips and continued, "I...I need to get out of here, man. Do something. I'm feeling itchy in my own skin, I'm so bored."

Sam didn't say anything for a moment, fingers tapping in contemplation rather than communication. Then his hand jumped to Dean's lower arm. "_Want 2 go 4 walk outside?_"

Even though he knew he'd have to let Sam help him hobble around, that sounded better than being cooped up in the room much longer. His shoulders slumped, and he nodded gratefully. "Sounds good. Thanks, dude."

He groped for where he'd set the walking stick and rose to find his bag, which was still on his bed. Instead of trying to pull out a suitable assortment of clothes, he let Sam dig some out and hand them to him. Dean clutched the bundle to his stomach and went to the bathroom to change. Reemerging a few minutes later he inched back to the bed, tossed his dirties into the duffel bag, and felt around for his boots at the foot of the bed.

After tugging on his boots, he was handed his cane again along with a jacket and, thanks to the little practice session yesterday, he made it to the door without any assistance. After that, though, all bets were off. Before he resigned himself to taking a step out and hoping for the best, an elbow prodded his non-cane hand and Dean compliantly grasped the arm just above it. He allowed Sam to walk them out until they'd advanced far enough to be off the concrete walk and onto the asphalt.

A few more steps to be outside the first row of parking spaces, and Sam placed his other hand on the one gripping his bicep, managing to pull off an inquiry through the contact.

Dean nodded to show he was okay and released his brother's limb. Modifying his hold on the wooden cane, he started forward to explore the exciting expanse that was the motel parking lot.

With his brother's unmistakeable presence only a few steps away, Dean steadily made his way around the lot, staying clear of any cars with the help of the guide pole. He noticed when he reached the end of the pavement when the ground changed to thin grass under his tread. He pivoted so that he followed along the limit of the hard surface and kept onward. He thought about how eerie it was that he could hear none of the noises of cars, trees rustling, or even his footsteps. Dean focused instead on the fresh air that invaded his lungs, clearing the stuffy air left over from the room.

He was digging the end of the stick in a semicircle in front of him, sweeping in an arc so as not to encounter any dips or obstructions unexpectedly, and he gained speed and confidence the farther he went. But he must have missed something, and his brother must not have been paying close attention, because one moment he was striding forward smoothly, and the next he was stepping on something small and roughly spherical.

Dean's foot rolled on the round object and his legs swept out from under him. Unable to regain his balance as easily as he normally would've due to his lack of sight, his arms pinwheeled and he gasped, "Sam!"

Strong arms caught him, which he grabbed on to, heart thudding from the spike of adrenaline that the feeling of falling caused. Sam held him up under the arms just long enough for Dean to get his feet back under him, and then the older man was batting his protective little brother off angrily.

"Dammit, Sam! I thought you were supposed to be watching where we were going? What's the point of you hovering three inches away all the time if you don't even keep me from stepping on a stupid rock?! In case you already forgot, I can't friggin' _see._" _Where is this coming from?_ He didn't know how loud he was yelling, but he could be waking up the whole neighborhood for all he couldn't stop, too flustered and mad with himself that he turned it on his brother. "Seriously, Sam, what help are you, huh? Doesn't matter, I guess, all I can do is sleep—barely—clean my guns, and be walked around the parking lot like some Yorkie who needs to do his business. And what about you, Sam? I thought you were supposed to be finding some way to fix this, but all you've done is whine to Bobby. Some brother you are."

During his whole rant, the only things he'd moved were his arms, and, by extension, the cane, too afraid to take a step in any direction and risk tripping on something. So Dean stood there, fuming, waiting for Sam to say something.

Seconds ticked by, and there was no sign, no touch from his brother. He started to sweat, horror at what he'd said snaking into his mind. _Crap, what did I do? Sam didn't take off, did he? I guess I don't blame him. Crap crap crap. _Finally, he tentatively ventured, "Sam?" He fought against the hint of desperation in his voice.

Fingertips brushed against his collarbone, light and apologetic. "_I'm sorry."_

Exhaling, Dean bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "No, Sam, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said any of that. I was just— This whole thing—"

The light pressure from Sam's fingers increased a moment, then, "_It's ok, I get it. It's tough, but we'll figure it out."_

When he'd finished his encouragement, Dean sighed reached up to pat his little brother's arm, and Sam let go. Dean admitted again, "Sorry."

Sam just clapped a hand on his shoulder softly. Dean made up his mind that, while his moment of guilt lasted and he didn't chicken out, he'd throw Sam a bone to show he trusted him. "Uh, Sam? Just a question." He cleared his throat. "How is my voice? Have I been too loud? Too quiet? Do I sound like Batman?"

Sam's immediate chuckle reverberated through his arm into Dean's shoulder. Then he tapped, "_Ur always 2 loud, bro. No, ur good. Little off, but that's ok._"

Suddenly feeling insecure—irrational as it was with only Sam around—Dean just nodded. Concluding that he might as well practice, he carefully spelled out on his brother's arm in Morse, "_Go 2 car?_"

Sam replied, "_Sure. Want 2 wash it? Should b easy._"

Dean just smiled his approval and let Sam subtly guide him by the elbow across the lot to the Impala.

…

Sam sat on the curb outside the door of the room with his laptop, keeping an eye on his brother, who was washing the Impala. Dean was practically caressing the familiar lines of his beloved car as he carefully scrubbed every inch of her. He knew the vehicle inside and out well enough that if he went slowly, even blind he could clean it till it gleamed in the midday sun.

Sam had rooted around in the trunk and finally unearthed a bucket, which he'd filled with warm, soapy water before tossing in a sponge and a rag and siccing Dean on the car. In his quest to be thorough, Dean was sweeping the sponge in wide spans, always leaving a hand where he left off so he didn't lose his place whenever he needed to re-saturate the sponge. He ended up using both hands a majority of the time to judge what he'd covered already and what still needed a once-over. Because of his strict attention to detail, washing the '67 Chevy took an inordinate amount of time.

But Sam didn't mind; it was nice and sunny out—if a little chilly—and he had his coat that kept him plenty warm. He'd gone back inside to fetch his laptop and was now trying to dig for any information that he might have missed. He'd turned up zip so far, but it was worth it to be outside and see his brother out of his funk for a while, even if it seemed to entail watching from the sidelines while Dean spent some quality time with his baby.

He smirked at the thought, shook his head, and turned his attention back to the screen, angling it down from the glare of the sun. Now if only he could find _something, _some spell or spell-breaker...

An hour and a half later, at long last, Dean had finished wiping down and rinsing off the main body car to his satisfaction. His sleeves and the knees of his jeans were soaked, but that didn't seem to bother him as he dropped the rag back into the now-cold bucket of water with an appeased grin.

"See, Sammy? Good as new." Of course he knew Sam was sitting there. The simple fact that Dean trusted him to be made Sam's heart ache dully; he hadn't always been there for his brother. He was the one who left, not Dean. But that wouldn't happen now; not ever. If their situation had been reversed, he'd have trusted Dean just as wholly as Dean—despite his outburst earlier—so obviously trusted him.

Sam felt a little guilty for letting Dean nearly fall earlier. Dean hadn't been mad at the younger man—not really—but he was right. Sam should've been watching more carefully, since his brother couldn't. Seeing him struggle to do simple tasks, and not being able to perform some at all, made the young hunter feel like more responsibility now rested on him. He took it on willingly, remembering how many times in the past his brother had taken care of him when he was hurt. Who says it couldn't go both ways, just because Dean was older? Dean seemed to have that mindset, that because he was the big brother he always had to be the provider, the protector. Well now, no matter how much he wanted to watch out for Sam, it was nearly impossible. So Sam would just have to return the favor, even if that went against every fiber in Dean's body.

To be honest, Sam was impressed with how Dean was dealing with the situation, quickly adapting, even if he didn't like it and it scared the crap out of him. Only Sam would notice because he knew his brother so well. Sam knew that if anyone else were in Dean's shoes, they'd probably be curled up the bed most of the day, too afraid to leave the room. But here Dean was, outside washing his car in broad daylight, putting utter faith in Sam to keep on the lookout.

Another thing he was, was increasingly impatient. "Sam?"

Shaking the ruminations away, the younger Winchester folded up his laptop, hefted up the cane that was propped by his side, and stood up in one big heave. He extended the staff so the tip hit Dean's hand. Dean accepted it, but still reached out to tug at Sam's sleeve when the younger brother bent to lift up the bucket. As if that were perfectly normal, Sam led his older brother back inside.

He deposited Dean at the bed and went to go pour out the pail in the bathroom sink. _Shoulda just dumped it outside, _he regretted mildly, wrinkling his nose at the almost-black water that filled the basin. A third option crossed his mind and he mentally groaned. _Duh, the tub. Nice one, Winchester. And they call you the smart one. _But the last of the dirty water was already swirling down the drain, and Sam decided not to cry over spilled holy water (as their dad used to say.)

Forgetting his trivial internal musings, Sam set the pail upside down next to the tub on a towel to dry and exited back into the other room. Dean had situated himself on his bed again, already beginning to look bored. Sam couldn't imagine the endless emptiness losing two crucial senses would be. If trading places with his brother was what it would take to know, Sam would in a heartbeat.

But he couldn't, so he'd just have to get his brother back what he'd lost, and they'd have to cope—together—in the meantime.

…

The rest of the afternoon passed sluggishly, neither brother really having enough to occupy their minds. Seeing Dean's need to immerse himself in something, Sam took it almost literally by gathering up all their dirty clothes—which, by now, were most of them—and heaping them onto Dean's lap to give him something to do. They usually sorted their laundry by feel anyways, and Dean could do that.

That didn't stop the man from acting miffed. "Oh, so, now you're gonna take advantage of me? Make the blind guy do the laundry?" He was already starting to toss pieces of clothing into separate piles as he said this, assuring that it was all in jest.

Sam retorted with a smug, "_Ur turn anyways._"

Dean just _pfft_ed. "Yeah, yeah, excuses, excuses."

A hint of a smile lit Sam's face, and he made himself comfortable on the end of the bed to flick on the TV. He'd called Bobby to check in not long after they'd come back inside, and the grizzled hunter hadn't come up with any ideas yet either; Sam's own research had hit dead-end after dead-end, so he'd given up for now.

Sam had run out to get some lunch for them, which turned out to be tacos—soft shelled for Dean, since they weren't _quite_ as messy as hard shells.

He now watched some mindless sitcom marathon for a couple hours while Dean sorted the laundry, who then, when he'd finished, surrendered to taking a nap. There was nothing better for him to do, so he slept, the dip in the foot of the bed a steady reminder of Sam's companionship.

When he grew bored of the reruns, Sam collected the piles of sorted clothes that dotted the bedspread surrounding Dean and placed them into a couple bags to take to the laundromat down the street sometime soon.

Under normal circumstances, Sam would go now, while his brother was out, but this was different and he had no clue when Dean might wake up; he didn't want to not be there when he did, especially since there was no way to leave the older hunter a note. So, he waited it out.

_Maybe I'll just do it tomorrow. Dean could go with, _he thought to himself as he slumped back down in front of the laptop to check some stuff. It would probably put his brother more at ease if he was with Sam when he went, since he could be gone as long as an hour or two. Sam sighed and clicked on his email to see if he'd gotten any replies from anyone about his reversal spell requirements. Nada.

Later, after Dean had woken up, the brothers went for another walk, this time following the sidewalk down the street a ways before turning back. Dean kept one hand on his walking stick while Sam followed behind him, on the alert for any hindrance in Dean's path.

That night, Dean insisted that Sam not leave his own bed, that he'd be fine. Sam pretended he didn't see Dean shift to his side, his back to Sam, and slide off his amulet to grip in his hand until he drifted off.

…

Mid-morning the next day, Sam and Dean went for yet another excursion outside to relieve their mild claustrophobia. Sam could practically see the pent-up energy pumping through Dean; a man needs to kill some evil every couple days or he goes crazy, apparently. So, it seemed like just taking little strolls around the motel wasn't enough. The younger man reasoned they could probably push for a little more.

He turned the thought over in his head, then went for it and asked his brother, "_Jog?_" He waited while Dean meditated on the suggestion.

A trace of dilemma crossed the older hunter's face, unsure of his own abilities. To quell his fears, Sam took up Dean's hand and placed on his shoulder blade. _You'll have to trust me for this one, bro, _he silently urged.

Dean's jaw set with determination. _I do, little brother. _He nodded affirmatively for Sam to start.

So they set off at a medium pace, Dean keeping his fingers attached to his brother's back at all times. They pounded down the asphalt of the road—the sidewalk had too many ingrown plants and cracks to trip on at the speed they were going—for about ten minutes before Sam turned them in a one-eighty to go back the way they'd come.

The Winchesters had just arrived at the edge of the motel parking lot when Sam felt Dean's fingers slip jarringly from his back. He immediately checked over his shoulder to see his brother stumble, staggering to either side. Sam slowed to a stop, grabbing Dean's arms when he wavered.

"_You ok?_" Sam watched as Dean put a hand to the side of his ducked head, and when he didn't answer, he tried again. "_Dean, u ok?_"

Finally, hands buttressed on his knees, Dean nodded and scratched out, "Yeah...jus' got...a li'l dizzy... S'okay, it...happens." He was panting slightly from their workout.

As worried as he was about his big brother, Sam knew that Dean's feelings of vertigo were merely a result of being deaf. _Yeah, 'merely.' _It messed with his inner ears and balance. Being blind, as well, sure didn't help, either. So Sam just wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders, while the other bent to secure Dean at his bicep. Against his far shoulder he urged, "_Cmon. Over here._" The younger brother chauffeured Dean towards the Impala to give him something more solid to lean on.

That's when three guys, roughly the brothers' ages, showed up from their rowdy amble across the street, all swagger and graphic shirts and baggy pants. Spying the brothers and Sam's hold on Dean, they all smirked and sauntered over, crowding the two all buddy-like.

"What's this?" The one that seemed to be the leader, who sported multiple arm tattoos, a buzz-cut head, and expensive black sunglasses, stepped up to Sam. "Hey, Stretch, who's this? You takin' your boyfriend on a date in this fancy boat of yours?" He grinned and passed a mocking, but not unappreciative, glance over the beast of a classic car.

_We just can't catch a break, can we? _Sam's hackles rose, but he stayed outwardly unruffled. He strategically stepped in front of his oblivious brother and backed them both up a few feet. Trying to divert attention from Dean and himself, he smoothly replied, "Maybe, maybe not." With pointed scrutiny of the other two cronies, he continued, "So, which one's yours? Has he met your parents yet?" While they were reacting to that, Sam unobtrusively twisted an arm back to tap out as quickly as he could on Dean's chest, "_3 humans. Trouble._"

The guy's face reddened by degrees, and every shred of mock-camaraderie disappeared from his body language. He growled, pointing his finger, "Watch it, buddy. I ain't no homo, 'specially not like you." The man, easily five inches shorter than Sam, leaned in to grab the lapels of the Winchester's jacket when he caught sight of Dean over Sam's shoulder. The older brother had his eyebrows pinched in worry, and he hadn't said anything since they'd arrived; shades-guy took notice of that.

"Yo. Pretty boy. Aren't you gonna stand up for your boyfriend here?" he challenged, ignoring Sam's scowl and shove to push him back a step.

While the guy had been speaking, Dean's face had shifted to confusion, and he was still staring off to the side of the group of guys with a vacant look. He obviously didn't react to the man's leer, and that's when a malicious grin reappeared on Shades' lips. He turned his simpering attention back to Sam. "So, Gigantor, you have a thing for the mentally challenged, huh? What, it make you feel smarter? More of a man?" He sniggered, and the other two guys joined in. "Bet you have to find someone pretty damn stupid to do that," he jeered with a suggestive look towards Dean.

Sam didn't like confrontation. He normally was the sensible one, keeping Dean in check when a hothead at a bar said too much. Or, sitting on the sidelines rolling his eyes as he watched Dean kick the crap out of said hothead, eager for it to be over so they could dust themselves off and leave, victorious. Maybe it was just because Dean couldn't defend himself effectively in his state, or maybe it was just Sam's normal, mutual protectiveness of his brother. But now, something just snapped, and even then he didn't explode. He became quietly lethal.

Sam clenched and unclenched his fists and intoned in a low, menacing voice, "Leave. Him. Alone." He glared at them warningly.

"Or what?" shades-guy mocked with a raise of both arms straight out towards the other two men on each side, exemplifying the fact that Sam was outnumbered.

Sam's expression gave nothing away, and then his fist was out and slamming into the front man's solar plexus with enough force to rupture something before anyone could blink. The man _oof_ed and folded in half like a lawn chair, and Sam launched a leg out to sweep the guy's feet out from under him.

The two accomplices had overcome their initial shock and surged toward Sam with primal shouts. The younger Winchester propelled his brother back out of the way—breaking the contact Dean had kept the whole time—before he jumped forward to meet them, going low.

He rammed into Goon #1's stomach and they both went down, feeling the breeze as they lunged forward, knocking the second sidekick aside. Sam bloodied the guy's face with a punch to the nose, then another to the jaw, and then a third. He was reeling back for one more when he felt himself get yanked off the now-unconscious man. Sam instantly thrust his elbow back, and was satisfied when it caught the third man in the throat.

The guy made a choking sound and loosened his hold on Sam. Sam flung the restraining arms off and whirled around, already swinging his arm. The blade of his hand jabbed into the side of the guys neck, and directly after, Sam finished him with a blow to the side of the head. The man crumpled to the ground, out for the count.

Less than a minute after the first attack, Sam stood among the sprawled bodies of the three men, heaving in air from the exertion. Though really, it'd been all too easy.

Not demons. Friggin' _humans._

Thoughts of his brother entered Sam's mind again, and he darted his gaze worriedly to where Dean stood.

Except, he wasn't there.

Sam gasped in a breath and turned on the spot, searching all around the parking lot for any sign of his brother, who had suddenly vanished. _What—?_

The frantic young man zoned in on shades-guy—who'd recovered a bit and had dragged himself up—and he fell to one knee beside him, roughly yanking him by the front of his shirt. Sam thundered, "Where is he? What did you do to my brother?!"

The man, still rubbing his stomach from the pain, cast a nervous glance back to see his motionless buddies. When Sam impatiently shook him, he hastily answered, voice cracking, "What? I— I didn't do anything to your...brother." Despite that he was facing the man who'd taken all three of them down, shades-guy defiantly glared at Sam over the top of his sunglasses, which had slid down on his nose.

Sam didn't know what to do, or what had happened in the flurry of activity. He'd been distracted by these yahoos. Dean hadn't had time to go anywhere, not without help. But it didn't make sense that these hotshots had anything to do with it.

Still, he growled at the man below him for good measure, who flinched at the ominous wrath written on Sam's face. Disgusted and having wasted enough time, Sam shoved him back down, and the guy scrabbled backwards in a crab walk. He scrambled to his feet and went to go rouse his buddies.

Sam was already up and running to the other side of the car, to the sidewalk, looking up and down the street. No Dean. He knew it was pointless, but he was scared and desperate enough to bellow out, "Dean!"

He dashed back to the room and burst through the door, past the empty beds, into the bathroom. No Dean. Back outside again, and the lot was empty, save the Impala; the thugs had taken off. They were gone.

Sam thickly swallowed past the growing lump in his throat and blinked against the moisture in his eyes.

So was Dean.

…

**Review? *Whips out Sammy puppy-dog eyes***


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry for making you guys sweat for a few extra hours. Cliffhangers are much more fun on this end, mwahahaha! **

**Anyways, I'll make this quick. Thank you so much, my lovely readers, for taking the time to review again! Reading them makes me so much more motivated to post!**

**Here we go with the next chapter!**

…

**Chapter 6**

Surrounded by oppressive oblivion, Dean had no clue what was going on. To put it mildly, it was frustrating.

After his little dizzy spell, he'd let Sam lead him to wherever it was he was taking him, and then his brother had stopped short. A moment later he felt Sam shift more directly in front of him, and he scowled at what he hoped was Sam's back.

_Great, something's up and I can't even do anything about it. And now it looks like Sam's playing guard dog._

He had to focus to decipher Sam's sudden, rushed message: "_3 humans. Trouble._" _Okay, so no demons or anything, and I'm assuming not hunters. _But still someone Sam saw as a threat. He kept his hand pressed to Sam's spine, the only touch point he could have to what was going on. His little brother's back was tensed up, his shoulders pulled back to stand tall. _You tell 'em, Sammy, _he silently cheered, waiting anxiously for any information on the situation.

If it was possible, Sam went even more rigid before his back was briefly lurching forward. But he still stayed rooted in his place, probably for Dean's sake.

He really needed to know what was happening, and Sam wasn't giving him any more clues. But all he could do was stand there and hope it played out well for his brother.

He could feel the swell of anger that rose up in Sam, thrumming through his back muscles. Without warning, he felt Sam surge out of his grasp, and he was pushed back, nearly tripping on his heels. _What the hell, Sam? _But he was more worried than mad, as apparently Sam had found a need to take action, both defensive and offensive.

The older brother was poised there, his feet planted in a ready stance, for all the good it would do, when a sudden, cool breeze blew over his stress-frayed nerves. There was a whirling feeling and he lost his balance for a second only to regain it almost immediately. He blinked in confusion.

Something was off. Almost right away it registered that he was no longer in the motel parking lot. Dean got the sensation of a different...atmosphere about this place. His fear spiked, and he clenched his fists to quell it. "Sam?" But his brother wasn't there anymore, he could tell; he was alone. _What was that? Where am I? _He questioned to the blackness. _Does it have something to do with those people that showed up?_

He didn't think it did; Sam's hunter intuition would've picked up anything unnatural about them. That didn't make him feel a whole lot better, though. Didn't change the fact that he was somewhere else, and Sam was not.

_Must've been some freaky teleportation thing. Fantastic, just what I need._ Deciding to try to figure things out instead of just standing there like a scared rabbit, Dean cautiously stepped forward, his arms outstretched. After a few trudging steps, his hands came in contact with a sharply slanted wooden surface. It felt splintery beneath his fingers, and it had some give.

Dean's heart sank. _Doors. I think they're cellar doors. _He was in some dank, dirt-floored cellar with no real idea how he'd gotten there or where, in fact, the cellar was. Exploring around a bit with his hands and feet, he found that the small room was empty except for cobwebs and dirt. He also discovered another set of old but sturdy, locked doors opposite of the entrance. Dean presumed that they led to some sort of basement. Under a house, maybe?

Something itched at his memory. _Cellar, cellar, something about a cellar. _He clicked his fingers. _Didn't that Warren...Stiles guy die in a cellar? Yeah, in his parents' house. _Was this the spirit's doing? It fit the pattern, but Dean was almost positive that Sam had burned the guy's corpse. Maybe he'd missed something, or not all of Stiles' remains were in the grave. So, if that was the case, Dean was doomed to be stuck here until he died.

_Not if I can help it, _Dean grumbled internally. He felt his way back to the entrance doors and started pounding on them. He dug out a knife that he always carried on him, and that was when he realized his coat was gone and that there was a biting chill to the air. _Well, hopefully I won't be here long enough to freeze into a Dean-sicle. _He began to carve at the wood with the point of his blade. Better than nothing.

He'd only been at it for a minute when there was another rush of air. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he braced himself but still wasn't prepared for the physical lifting of his body off the ground before being thrown into the wall by some intangible force.

Déjà vu washed over him as he slammed into the dirt wall, reigniting pain in days-old bruises. Dean crumpled to the ground, groaning in discomfort and trying to gasp enough air into his abused lungs. He pushed himself back so he was gingerly leaning against the wall he'd just plowed into.

He snarled as intimidatingly as possible between breaths. "Who are you? What do you want?"

_You will pay, _a familiar mantra sounded, inside his head this time.

_So it is Warren. Figures. Just my luck. Getting lazy on the job, Sam? _But he couldn't really blame Sam. He'd been preoccupied with his older brother suddenly losing two of his senses, and how would he have known that Stiles was tethered by something other than the body in his grave? No, this wasn't Sam's fault. But he sure did wish his brother were here to fix it.

He shoved to his feet, determinedly making for the doors again and pulling out an iron piece he kept in an inner pocket. Before he could blink, he was forced to screech to a halt, thwarted by the icy entity that formulated in his path. _You will not escape, _the voice hissed. _You will pay. _Dean struck out blindly with the iron and a yowl of pain and anger reverberated in his head.

He was knocked back again, but this time by a very-substantial hand that rent across his chest in white-hot furrows. Dean bit back a cry, feeling the warmth of blood instantly well in the three long gashes and run down his skin, soaking his torn shirt.

Having hit his head hard, his limbs twitched as he fought to stay conscious after the second meeting with the wall. Then the spirit was there again, hovering over him and demanding, _You must suffer._

Not wasting breath, Dean mouthed, _Screw you, _and tried to drag himself backwards. A pair of frosty hands stopped him in his tracks when they wrapped around his throat, digging in painfully. The voice reiterated, _You must suffer. As I did._

Dean's thoughts blurred as he struggled weakly against the suffocating hold. The one thought he held onto was, _Sam. _He chanted the name in his head, over and over, thinking maybe if he thought it hard enough, his brother might hear him. _Sam. Sam, Sam, Sam..._

The name that brought him comfort echoing deep into his psyche, he barely noticed when the fingers released his neck; seconds later, he lost his battle with consciousness.

…

Sam had no leads, no sudden epiphanies, and no luck finding out what happened to his brother. He'd just dissolved into thin air while Sam's back was turned, leaving no indication of where he'd gone or how. There was no evidence of sulfur—so demons were unlikely—no blood, nothing. There were residual traces of EMF, but that could indicate almost anything paranormal, or even just nearby power lines. It had been a long night of returning to vigorous research, pacing the motel room, calling up Bobby, and avoiding looking at Dean's empty bed.

So, basically, he was losing his mind. Twelve hours since that scuffle in the parking lot that had turned into Sam losing his brother. His currently-deaf and -blind brother.

Sam ran a distraught hand through his hair. God, he hoped Dean was okay. But considering the luck that usually befell the Winchesters, that was about as likely as the sky turning green or the Impala being able to fly. Man, first he'd lived a motherless childhood, then he'd lost Jess, followed by his father a year later... He _couldn't_ lose Dean now. His brother was all he had left, and vice versa. He'd do anything to find his brother and bring him back safely, deaf-blind or not.

Sam stopped his pacing when he reached a wall. He stared at his feet for a moment before he erupted and pounded both his fists on the wall, where he clenched them and grit his teeth. He had to find Dean, just _had _to. He wouldn't be able to go on without him; the one who helped him through his loss of Jess, consoled him through his nightmares, nursed him after his visions; whom he was able to support in return in dealing with their father's death.

The young hunter leaned his forehead into the wall between his fists, swallowing back a sob. He thought about what Dean would say about his little emo breakdown. He would get embarrassed about all this emotion being directed towards him, _for _him, and make up for it with an affection-laced insult about Sam really being a girl, with his mop of hair and all.

Sam cracked a meager smile during his musings, then let it slip away again. He steeled himself, common sense temporarily overriding Sam's residing fear. He stood up straight, swiped a hand over his eyes, and stalked to the table to start making a list of all creatures that could use teleportation.

…

Dean swam in a deep, smothering ocean of pain. Earlier—he wasn't sure how long ago it had been—he'd made one last, futile attempt to escape, and he was left with a fresh set of slashes across his left shoulder to show for it. So now he was cowering, _cowering,_ in the corner of the cellar like a beaten dog, trying to keep himself head throbbed to the same beat that the burning lacerations in his torso did, and cold blanketed the rest of him.

He'd vaguely realized he should put pressure on the wounds, stop the bleeding. So, at some point that his hazy mind could barely remember, he'd managed to pull off his outer shirt in halting, agonizing movements, fold it horizontally, and tie the sleeves tight behind his back so the shirt wrapped snugly around his chest and under his arms.

Losing a layer only made Dean shiver more, but at least he was shivering still, and the cold had helped slow the flow of blood. The wounds still seeped, though, and the tied-off shirt was soon half saturated. He was holding a bloodied, trembling hand over the gouges in his shoulder, barely able to suppress whimpers of pain. He didn't want to give the spirit that satisfaction.

_Can't believe I've been bested by some B-list ghost. Wouldn't Dad be proud. _But the hunter knew he was in trouble. No way to get out, no way to properly treat his injuries, no food or water, still no hearing or sight. He needed help. He needed Sam. Right then, if he'd been given the choice between resurrecting his father, and having Sam there, with him, right now...he would have chosen the latter.

There, he'd said it: he would willingly let his kid brother rescue his helpless ass.

_Any time, Sam, would be nice. _Dean wouldn't lose hope. His college genius of a brother was bound to find him soon. He licked his parched lips. Hopefully before dehydration got to him. Or the cold. Or shock. Or blood loss.

_Yeah, any time, Sammy, _he repeated before succumbing to the unrelenting drag of sleep.

…

Thirty hours. Nearly one. And a half. Freakin'. _Days_ since Dean had disappeared, and still Sam hadn't found him. He was floundering here, and he felt like the worst brother in the world; the worst hunter. Okay, so he'd deduced that it must've been the spirit of Warren Stiles who had taken his brother. So what? He wondered why he hadn't thought of it right away; that was the most plausible explanation, given how the previous victims had gone out, even if he'd burned the guy's body. It wouldn't be the first time they had missed some valued item or lock of hair that tied down a spirit. So he'd packed up in record time and had raced back to the location of their former case, finding a motel on the other side of the town from last time.

The thing that was giving him the most trouble was figuring out _where _Stiles had taken Dean. Looking back at the other vics, they'd all been transported to some place that they feared. For the life of him, Sam could not determine a location that would put fear in his brother. I mean, if there were any haunted or abandoned airplanes near by, he might've considered that. But that was unlikely, and he didn't think the spirit's powers could reach much farther than the hotel a couple hours away. So, he was once again left with bupkis.

The young hunter, who was getting progressively more desperate by the hour, researched the town for anything that might work. Any place that the ghost would take Dean to scare him and leave him to die. Neither his internet search nor revisiting the library a few hours later uncovered anything new.

Except for the fact that Warren's parents' old house was long deserted, his folks having moved out soon after his death thirty years ago. And now it just sat there on the outskirts of town, empty, unclaimed, and unmaintained. Why this hadn't turned up a few days ago when they were on the case, he didn't know. All that mattered was that maybe...

Sam quickly closed and returned the files he'd been digging through, collected his things, and dashed out to the car. It was the only hypothesis that he had to work with. If Dean wasn't trapped there...well, Sam would have to find him soon. He doubted that Warren would make an exception for Dean; his brother would be well on his way towards dehydration, and the frigid Michigan nights sure weren't a help when one was held captive in a wooden cellar.

With the knowledge that if this didn't pan out, he was back to square one, Sam plunged the key into the ignition, twisted it, and, dialing up Bobby, roared out of the parking lot to make for the edge of town.

…

Dean fell in and out of sleep in waves, bobbing between foggy, pain-filled wakefulness and confusing, painless unconsciousness. Honestly, the pain was the only thing that revealed which was which, because it seemed that he dreamed no matter which state he was in.

He dreamed—or maybe hallucinated—his brother arriving to save him, his dad doing the same thing; reliving memories and stories and myths, feeling like they were happening for real, for the first time.

Nausea had threatened to overcome him a few times, but he always fought it back down, unable to afford losing any more liquids.

The only constant was the cold and the pain that had spread through his whole body. His cramped and freezing hand was lax on his shoulder now, no longer able to find the strength to grip it. Next to his chest and shoulder, his head hurt the worst: an effect of his lack of nourishment for...he had no idea how long. His pain and intermittent nausea drowned out any complaint from his stomach, though.

He knew at least a day must have passed, but when he expected to feel a little warmer with the light of day, he hadn't. If anything, he felt colder. That lead him to believe maybe he had a fever, and if that were the case, infection must have set in. Wasn't like the spirit was exactly worried about his hygiene while keeping him here.

Or maybe, he was just really friggin' cold. Either way, he really, really wanted..._needed_ Sam. _What's taking so long, little brother? You stop for gas on the way? _

Dean didn't know how he'd lasted this long. Maybe it was his stubborn Winchester genes, or maybe it was just dumb luck, but he knew he couldn't last much longer, not without at least one of his afflictions treated.

When Sam came, Dean would find a way to thank his little brother for all he'd done for him, especially the last few months. Heck, the last few days. When Sam came, he'd...he'd tell him about what their dad had said right before he died. And he'd vow to Sam that he'd keep the worst from happening to him—deaf and blind or not.

Sam was coming. He knew it. And for him, Dean held on.

…

**Review, please? Don't make me use my mom voice!**


	7. Chapter 7

**I feel like a broken record, but I just have to tell you guys again how much I appreciate your responses to the story. Give me some more! There's just one more chapter after this to wrap it up, so I'll see you again tomorrow. Happy reading!**

…

**Chapter 7**

The Impala skidded to a stop in a spray of gravel outside a ramshackle house. It was a quarter mile from the nearest neighbor and surrounded by a lawn overtaken by nature. Sam was already ducking out of the driver's seat to dart to the trunk to grab whatever he might need: salt, holy water, ax, salt shotgun, handgun with iron rounds, matches, lighter fluid, flashlight, the first aid kit, shoving all the equipment in a duffel bag except the sawed-off, which he stuck in the back of his jeans. He slung the bag over his shoulder and slammed the trunk lid back down simultaneously, already pivoting on his heel to make strides for the house.

The younger Winchester circled the decaying fixer-upper in hurried steps, scanning through the thick grass and weeds and bushes for an old, wooden construction. He wasn't sure if it was a subbasement cellar or just a separate subterranean cellar, but he'd cover all the bases by searching in a large radius.

Just in case, Sam called out, "Dean!" It wasn't a surprise to him when he didn't receive an answering shout; he still felt his anxiety creep up a little, and he tried to speed up his inspection without missing anything.

He'd made it around the back of the house, not having found any sign of a cellar, when he caught sight of a pair of off-angle wooden doors built into the side of the house, securely closed by a padlocked chain running through the handles.

_Bingo. _Not wanting to waste time with a lock pick, Sam pulled out the ax mid-stride and was at the doors in a few paces, where he dropped the bag. He aligned the chain just so, then took a step back to give himself some room. He aimed, cocked back his arms, and swung in a sure arc. The blade connected with the chain with a loud clang, but didn't break it. It was definitely weakened, though, and Sam readied himself for another go.

A cold draft suddenly blew past him, and, a second later, a misty form coalesced to his right. _Warren. _Somewhat expecting the spirit to make an appearance at some point—if he was right about Dean being here—he dropped the ax and whipped out the shotgun in a fluid, choreographed motion.

As fast as he was, the spirit was faster and had flickered and consolidated directly in front of the young hunter.

Sam's finger instinctively tightened on the trigger, and with a sharp crack and a spray of rock salt, the vengeful spirit dispersed.

Letting out a huge breath and taking a quick look around, Sam replaced the shotgun back under the waistband at his lower back, and retrieved the ax once more. He didn't have much time before the ghost would be back, and he had to get to Dean. He was nearly certain that his brother was here now, and his heart pounded in anticipation. Sam hefted the ax again, and struck down precisely onto the chain, this time severing the links.

He hastily tucked the tool under his arm, bent to pull the chain through the handles, and tossed it to the side without looking. Sam yanked the doors open, allowing them to fall to either side of the square opening he'd exposed. A short set of wooden, dusty steps lay before him, leading into a dark, underground room.

Picking up the duffel bag, Sam whispered in a low voice, "Dean?" more for himself than for his brother's sake. Some dying light from the early-evening sky filtered in to dimly illumine the small cellar, but Sam couldn't see into the corners, so he dug out the flashlight and clicked it on as he crept downward.

This part of the cellar, merely an entryway to the rest of the basement, was roughly ten by fifteen feet and was empty except for a few bare shelves lining the walls between wooden supports. He nearly had to duck in order to stand up. Sam swept the edges of the room with the beam of the flashlight, encountering only dirt floors and the soft glint of cobwebs.

Sam was holding his breath during his examination, doubt niggling at the back of his head. He cursed. _Where are you, De—_

That's when the beam fell on the unmoving, supine form of his brother, lying in a small pool of blood.

"Dean!" Sam stumbled down the last few steps and raced over to his brother's side. Gasping quietly at the sight of the blood-soaked, makeshift compress wrapped around Dean's torso, he went down on one knee and carefully gathered Dean up, propping his shoulders on one of his legs. "God, Dean, what'd he do to you?" Sam murmured in horror. Dean was pale and clammy, a sheen of sweat glistening on his ashen face. His breaths were shallow and sporadic, and he wasn't even shivering, despite the fact that he was only wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Sam pressed his first two fingers to the artery under Dean's chin; his pulse was weak and fast, but steady for the time being.

The younger brother readjusted his hold on Dean so he could cup the side of Dean's face, brushing against days' worth of stubble. "Come on, bro, you gotta wake up." He patted Dean's cheek gently but urgently, unable to keep the small tremor out of the words. "Wake up, man. Please." He moved his hand up to stroke Dean's bristly, dirty hair in tacit comfort.

His injured brother stirred, eyes pinching in pain before fluttering open. He stiffened before flexing his good arm up to grab hold of Sam's jacket, fisting it with weak fingers. "S'm? S'mmy?" His voice was thready, barely more than a whisper.

Sam slid his hand back down to Dean's cheek and he cinched him closer. "Yeah, it's me. I've got you." He tugged him higher so Dean's head rested against his shoulder.

"Sam?" Dean breathed. The older brother extended an unsteady arm and felt up his brother's chest and the slope of his collarbone until he reached Sam's face, chilly fingers ghosting over his features. Letting his hand slide back down his neck to grip Sam's shirt collar, Dean sagged into his brother in relief. He exhaled against the underside of Sam's jaw, "Kn-new you'd...come." He hissed as a vicious twinge of pain hit. His breath came out in labored pants, his teeth chattering softly and lips tinted blue. "G-got m'self...'nto a real...mess here, S-sammy." He trailed off for a few moments, then, almost inaudibly, "So...c-cold."

Trying not to jostle his brother too much, Sam shrugged out of his coat and gently bundled Dean into it. "Where'd your coat go, Dean?" He didn't see it around at all. The spirit must've taken it, along with his shoes, wanting Dean to suffer as much as possible. He smothered the fresh flicker of anger; he'd deal with Warren later. He had even less time now until the dead man came back, and he still had to patch up Dean before they could go anywhere.

On the same wavelength, Dean jerked in Sam's arms and gasped out, "S'm...s-spirit...i's...Warr'n." He coughed and clenched his fist tighter in the neck of Sam's shirt. He wasn't all there or he would've realized Sam had to have known that to find him. But even freezing and nearly in shock, he was still trying to warn Sam.

Not sure if Dean had the presence of mind to understand, Sam tapped out on his arm anyway, "_I know. It's ok."_

Stretching out to grab the bag, Sam drug it to him so he could unzip it and take out the first aid kit. Having seen the bloody tears in Dean's skin, he knew they'd need stitches. A lot of them; they didn't really have anything heavy-duty enough in the kit to properly clean out the wounds, but he hoped it'd be enough until he could get Dean to a hospital.

He talked to fill the silence—well, his silence. "I know you're cold, bro, but I have to cut your shirt off so I can fix you up." Pushing back the coat with regret, Sam undid the bloody flannel shirt-compress and threw it into the corner. He slid a pair of scissors from the kit up Dean's t-shirt, shucking it off when he finished.

Exclaiming anew now that Dean's injuries were exposed, he scrounged out some packets of antiseptic wipes and tore one open with his teeth. It didn't seem like nearly enough on these...valleys in Dean's chest and shoulder, but it was all they had. Sam quickly brushed around and over the gashes, wincing at Dean's groans. "Sorry, Dean. Almost done." He chafed his other hand up and down Dean's arm, trying to warm him up a little.

Tossing the empty packages aside, Sam hastily slathered half a tube of antibiotic ointment over the wounds, then dug out a roll of sterile gauze. It was a feat to wrap it around Dean's upper ribs and left shoulder, Sam's stiff cast being a hindrance, but he managed to cover the slashes with a couple layers before he cut the gauze with a snick and taped the end down. "There, Dean, good as new." His hands were slick with blood now..._Dean's blood_. Massaging Dean's chest below the bandage, he pulled the winter coat back over his brother's arms and zipped it up to Dean's neck.

Despite the death grip that returned to cling to his shirt, Sam could tell Dean was more out of it than in, and worry churned in his gut. He had to get his brother out of here, quick. "Time to go, Dean." After hurriedly wiping his crimson-stained hands off on the fabric of the duffel bag, he cupped his brother's chin. Then he carded his fingers through Dean's hair again to convey silent affection before maneuvering his arms so he could haul himself and his brother up to their feet.

Tendrils of a sudden, creeping chill tingled down his spine, and that was all the warning he had before Stiles' spirit arrived. Sam curled himself protectively over Dean's body and sprung for the salt. He poured it out around them in a semicircle, their backs to the wall.

Warren growled in frustration. "He must not escape. He must pay."

Sam allowed his anger to come forth now. "Stay away from him!" Still hugging Dean to himself and bodily guarding him, he barked out, "Why? Why did he deserve this? Why did any of those people? They've done nothing to you!" He knew reasoning with a vengeful spirit that was so far gone was pointless, but he wanted to keep it away from Dean. "The people who hurt you are long gone. Give it a rest." As he was talking, Sam was subtly pulling out the shotgun.

The spirit just tilted his head at Sam, then pointed a ghostly finger at the older brother. "He hurt me. He must pay. He will pay."

"I defiled your grave and burned your bones! Why didn't you come after me?" Sam shouted, sliding his grip towards the trigger while keeping an arm secured around Dean.

Stiles shimmered and beamed a few feet forward, but was repelled by the line of salt. "Don't tempt me," he threatened, trying to find a way past the barrier.

With a wordless yell, Sam shielded Dean's face with his arm, brought up the gun, and shot the spirit, once more buying the brothers a few more minutes.

Not wasting a second, Sam shoved the firearm and supplies into the duffel bag and slid the strap onto his shoulder. He carefully inched an arm under Dean's shoulders and the other under his knees, preparing to lift up.

Dean roused momentarily and started to protest, "Mmph. Put me down, Sam." He feebly pushed at Sam's arms, determined not to be carried out of there like a baby, but to no avail.

Sam waited till Dean's strength gave out, then hefted him up, grunting under the weight and the old ache in his broken wrist. "Not a chance, big brother. Not till we're outside. Then we'll talk." But for Dean's benefit he just tapped, "_No._"

Sam staggered forward a step, then, adjusting Dean so he was higher up on his chest, made for the stairs. He turned sideways so they could fit through the opening and climbed out. Once they were about twenty feet away, Sam lowered his brother down on a grassy patch, easing his head and neck down last. He found the lighter fluid, matches, and holy water in the duffel bag, then slipped it under Dean's feet to belatedly elevate them.

He moved back up Dean's body to cradle his head, tilting it up so he could tip the bottle of holy water to Dean's chapped lips. Sam let his brother take a few sputtering sips before retracting the water and twisting the cap back on. He gently set Dean's lolling head back down.

Secretly pleading for Dean to hang on just a few more minutes, Sam pressed a palm to the side of Dean's face one more time, murmuring, "I'll be right back." His heart squeezed at his brother's soft whine when he removed his hand. Before he could change his mind, Sam rose to his feet and turned back towards the house to torch the place, starting with Warren's former prison.

…

Dean was drifting in a lightless abyss of cold and pain and soft touches and warmth, his murky mind mixing up past and present.

Sam. He remembered Sam. He'd come to save Dean. He made him warmer, then cold, then hurt, then warm again. He hated that he couldn't stay alert for very long, and the next thing he knew he felt the disconcerting sensation of being lifted up. He complained to the sasquatch to put him down; he would walk himself out, damn it. But Sam wasn't having any of that, and Dean found that he couldn't resist.

He conceded to give in to unawareness for a while again, but it felt like only seconds later when he sensed a decrease in altitude again. His limp body was nestled down onto what felt like thick grass that tickled his neck, and then there was a jostling of his legs, followed by a hand under his head.

A cool wetness was pressed to his lips, and he drank greedily, disappointed when the water was taken away all too soon. Mild dizziness and nausea struck again, and his ravenous stomach cramped, but he didn't have the strength to hurl, and he instantly felt better when his head was laid down again.

Dean thought he felt a hand on his face again, and he instinctively leaned into the warm contact before it disappeared. He keened softly at the lost touch point to reality, shivered, and his thoughts jumbled confusingly again.

He didn't know how much time had passed, but he was roused by familiar hands resting lightly on his stomach and hairline. He felt the fingers on his stomach thumping intermittently but was unable to focus on it. Instead, he sluggishly shifted his own hand to nudge against the hand on his midriff. Sam's fingers stilled, and Dean clutched the hand tightly. He mustered a smile when it squeezed back before patting Dean's stomach.

A strange heat was caressing Dean's skin; across his hands, his neck, his face—the only places that were exposed. Suddenly, the warmth in his face intensified to unbearable, searing through his brain and across his skull in fiery trails. He cried out and brought his palms to his burning eyes; he vaguely felt frantic hands grasp him by the shoulders and head, and he begged, _Make it stop, Sammy! It hurts, make it stop, makeitstop..._

As suddenly as it had emerged, the piercing heat drained away, and Dean, wheezing and starting to cough, let his hands fall. Sam was pushing his hair back in desperate motions, pleading, "What's wrong, Dean? What happened?" His voice sounded like it was underwater. Or maybe _he _was underwater.

Wait. He could _hear _Sam. With a gasp, Dean yanked his eyelids open, only to flinch them shut against a brightness that flared in his vision. Just barely cracking them this time, Dean slitted his eyes open to see—_see!—_splotchy, blurred shapes. They consisted of a tall building—house—a flickering wall of bright orange—fire, which explained the lingering warmth—and that dredged up old, dreadful recollections of another house in another time, hopelessly ablaze. But he moved his aching eyes again, and a pale face topped with dark hair came into view—_Sam_. Sammy was here, with him. _He'd _carried him out, this time.

Dean blinked a few times, trying to bring the distraught face into focus. He managed to make out his brother's chin, mouth, nose, eyes, the worried crease in his forehead. Another few seconds of blinking, and he could see Sam clearly enough to notice the glistening moisture in Sam's soft, hazel eyes, a few smudges of dirt across his cheeks, and the fact that Sam was saying something, a look of hopeful disbelief on his face.

"Dean? Are you okay?" He spoke slowly, shaking his brother lightly.

Dean couldn't hold back a thrilled grin. "Sammy. Yer hair's even...longer'n I...r'member. We should do something...'bout that." His voice was scratchy and thin and faded in and out, but he could hear it.

Sam returned his grin with a short, husky laugh, his teeth and dimples flashing and eyes threatening to overflow. "Jerk," he uttered heatlessly in his smooth tenor.

Dean was drawn forward into a warm, flannel shoulder, Sam's arms wrapping around his neck and cheek grazing against his temple. Dean huffed into Sam's shirt. "Girl." But he hugged him back as best he could, as glad to see his brother as Sam was, before the pain in his torso made itself known again. He grunted when he felt the stinging flesh of his chest press against Sam's.

"Sorry, man." Sam was just pulling away when a deafening blast erupted at his back, originating from the house. His body was still hovering over Dean's, and the older brother watched in horror as, as if in slow motion, Sam was thrown over and out of sight behind him.

His brother's hold on him gone, Dean slammed jarringly to the ground. He screamed, "SAM!" even before his ears stopped ringing. He struggled to sit up in the blistering heat, ignoring the screaming in his chest and shoulder. He rolled to his side, craning his neck up to see where Sam had landed. "Samm—!"

He broke off in a coughing fit and curled back up, unable to push it down for an infuriatingly long time. When he finally had his lungs under control again, he unfolded his resistant body to return his line of vision to the correct angle again. With watery eyes, he saw that his brother was slumped about ten feet away, not moving, his legs twisted underneath him.

Dean groaned and started to crawl on his side, using handfuls of grass to drag his battered body across the ground. He had to take brief rests between each heave to catch his breath and brace himself, so it seemed like an eternity before he crossed the ten feet to his brother's inert body.

It took Dean a few tries to get his brother's name out, he was panting so hard from exertion and pain. He latched onto Sam's sleeve so he could pull himself up and collapse against Sam's side. Black spots were skulking on the edge of his vision again. "C'mon, Sammy, don' do this." He couldn't get them out of here by himself; couldn't lose Sam so soon after regaining his senses. "Was jus' a li'l e'splosion." _Anyone ev'n think to check wha' was in th'rest of the basemen' b'fore lightin' it up? _He sure didn't like how his words, and even his thoughts, were slurring.

He let out a relieved breath when Sam's ribcage expanded underneath him. He lazily flicked his gaze around and spotted the rock Sam must've hit his head on. Dismissing it, he returned his attention to Sam, blinking when his vision swam again and half-succeeding in clearing it.

The younger Winchester's expression was less lax than a minute ago. "D'n?" he mumbled into the grass. He was just coming to, eyes cracking open, when another boom, larger than the last, went off to the rear of the brothers.

Dean, conjuring up the last reserves of his strength, lunged to cover Sam's curled frame and ride out the blast wave. Heat enveloped them, and debris littered the ground around their hunched forms, some falling across Dean's back and head.

The last thing the hunter heard was Sam's choked, "Dean!" before even that was lost and blackness swallowed him once more.

…

**Only one more chapter to go, so let me know what you think! *Best John Winchester imitation* Review! And that's an order!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Well, here we are, last chapter! Hope it's up to par, and thanks for reading! I had a lot of fun writing this story and posting it. Please, please let me know what you think of it!**

**I'm not sure if or when I'll write a new story, since I don't have any ideas at the moment. So, have a good rest of your summer everyone! What's left of it until school starts. :(  
**

…

**Chapter 8**

In the mere minute or so that Sam was out, he relived months of memories, flashing from one to the next: pouring his heart out to his failing, unresponsive brother after the accident that wasn't really an accident; seeing his dad's lifeless body on the hospital floor; giving their father a hunter's sendoff; watching Dean tear himself up for weeks, months afterward; Dean's soul-baring speech on the hood of the Impala; discovering Andy, another one of the kids like him; the ill-fated hunt of Warren Stiles...

His reminiscing snapped to the near-present: finding his beaten and starved big brother and carrying him out; watching as flames flickered up the wooden struts, ceiling, doors of the old, dry cellar in hopes of destroying any remnants of the spirit Stiles; witnessing his brother's excruciating agony as the house went up in a blaze; Sam begging him to be okay; seeing a look akin to wonder in Dean's muddy brown eyes as he _stared_ up at him...

Feeling the eruption behind him and—thankfully—being harmlessly somersaulted over his brother, only to land on his head in a flash of pain before darkness flooded over him.

Seconds, and a lifetime, later, he was silently groaning, and a growing lump on the back of his head pulsated. Sam scrunched his eyebrows, still not fully aware of what was happening...though he felt a heaviness against his side. "D'n?"

He fought his way up through layers of fog and was just prying his weighted eyelids open when a second explosion went off, and the pressure on his side changed to a blanket of pressure over his body as he curled reflexively against the light and heat.

After half a minute of nearly-intolerable heat and shrapnel flying around them and crashing to the ground, Sam wrenched his eyes open again. The pressure against him had become dead weight, and he knew what—who—had been shielding him. Coughing from the smoke and dust, he croaked out, "Dean!" as he tried to rise gradually so as not to dislodge his brother's motionless form.

Shoving a charred piece of wood from his brother's back, Sam oh-so-carefully turned him over. He noted with dismay that, underneath the partially unzipped coat, Dean's bandages were soaked with blood, and the stain was slowly spreading. His breaths had become short and uneven at best, and Dean was on the verge of going into shock. Again. If he hadn't already. Not to mention he hadn't shivered once through this whole ordeal, and his lips and fingernails were still blue.

Shaking the remaining fuzziness out of his head, Sam knew they had to get out of here. He already distantly heard sirens, and he didn't want to get involved with the authorities. There was no explaining this away; he _had _set the fire. If he got them to the hospital before the police saw them, he could pass off their injuries as some sort of wild animal encounter while camping in the woods.

First things first: get Dean to the car. His brother was slipping away fast, and Sam had to strive to keep the trembling out of his own hands, which he slid under Dean once again. As he heaved up, he soothed, "Hey. Hey, Dean. I've got you. I'm gonna take care of you. You're gonna be okay." Dean didn't even make a sound as Sam lurched forward to grab their duffel bag—he'd have left it to burn, for all he cared, but there was too much evidence to let the police find it. So, he shouldered it with difficulty and staggered off towards the Impala.

By the time he got there, his arms felt like they were going to fall off. But he still tugged on the door handle and eased Dean into the passenger seat slowly, resting his head back. Sam opened the back door to chuck the bag in and took a few more precious seconds to scoop out some blankets to swaddle around Dean's legs and around his shoulders.

Sam closed the doors and bolted around the hood of the car to fall behind the wheel. A few moments later they were roaring away in the direction of the hospital. He slowed to the speed limit when fire engines came into view, which sped past him without a second thought.

Sam let out a breath and turned to Dean. He pulled at his brother so he was leaning against him and Sam could stretch an arm around Dean, imparting body heat. His brother's head rolled onto his shoulder, and Sam accepted the burden willingly. As he drove one-handed, he hoped some of his words got through to his brother and his newly-regained sense of hearing. "Almost there, Dean. Gonna fix you up, alright? You're gonna be fine."

Sam prayed it was true as he slid to a halt at the front doors of the hospital.

…

For what seemed like an eternity, the most he was ever aware was enough to be miffed that he was so unaware of everything. He couldn't control his body, couldn't move his limbs or his head of his own volition. Even his thoughts tended to roam of their own accord.

But in detached, fleeting moments, he felt hands on him, both alien and recognizable. It was the same for the voices he heard, though he could never make out what any of them said, except for one that he'd know anywhere, the one that went along with those oh-so-gentle hands that were so consolingly familiar.

There was a harsh brightness outside his closed eyelids and the feeling of air rushing by quickly. Then he lost his hold on the physical world and all conscious thought for a long while.

When he came back, he floated for a while, a soft, beseeching voice swirling around him at times. In contrast to the dull fire that he distantly recognized in his chest and shoulders, somewhat more muted than before, the rest of his body was quivering with cold. He wished for something to cover him, to block out the cold, but no one read his mind. He lay there, coughing occasionally, shrouded in icy air which seemed to only drop in temperature.

He felt cold, so cold, but when something finally happened, he was only made colder. A sudden dip into iciness, and he thought he'd scream from the torture, but he could no more make a sound than he could escape the restraining hands. It lasted for never-ending minutes, until he could feel himself shivering so violently that finally he was lifted up. Softness replaced the frigidness, but even that still felt cold. Everything did. Even the touch he knew so well that had settled on his forehead was freezing on his skin.

That was weird. He'd always thought of Sam as sunny, warm. Like his face when it was lit with a smile. How long had it been since he'd actually seen Sammy smile like that, so untroubled and carefree?

Words, pleading and desperate, drifted past his ears from far away. "Stay with me, Dean. C'mon, man, don't do this. Please, I can't..."

_Can't what, Sammy? _He strained to move his head, his lips, his vocal chords, but it was useless. He struggled to remain even this alert, but fatigue tugged him down into encompassing numbness.

The next time he felt anything, it was because his body was jerking. Well, his lungs were. He'd started coughing, and then he couldn't stop, grating hacks tearing their way up his throat until it felt raw. He distantly heard his brother's despaired cries and frantically soothing words. A hand rubbing up and down his sternum in frenzied motions, trying to stifle the coughs that were wracking his torso. The breath whooped out of him relentlessly, and he couldn't breathe. He coughed until he didn't have the strength to cough, but he still wasn't taking in any breaths. His head whirled nauseatingly, and the last thing he felt for a while again was the touch on his chest being replaced by other, strange hands. _Don't go, Sam._

The third time he surfaced, that he could remember, there was a hand—_that _hand—fastened to his, long fingers wrapped around his own, and they weren't quite so cold this time. His breathing was deep and even, and that wasn't his own doing. The expanding of his ribs was mechanical and accompanied with an airy whooshing sound off to his left.

He started to lose his nerve, but he was distracted by the hand that squeezed his tightly enough for him to feel that the arm it was attached to was trembling. And the slumped form that was propped on the bed by his side was softly convulsing. Dean's heart broke when he heard Sam lament between the soft sounds, "Please, Dean. Please." That was all he said, repeating those two words until they faded to nothing. But the quiet keens continued.

_I'm sorry, Sammy. Didn't mean to put you through this. _He wanted with all his heart to be able to squeeze Sam's hand in return, to touch the tousled hair he could feel resting near their joined hands, but he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried. He merely felt his own eyes filling in response to his brother's audible tears, and he willingly let the darkness take him away again. _I'm sorry._

...

He awoke to the noise of some machine that he couldn't place right away. What was that droning sound?

No, not droning, more of a low...beeping sound. It was unvarying, really familiar...

Oh.

Dean slowly crept up to awareness in stages, first feeling his aching head, then his shoulders and chest, his back, then twitching his extremities. The beeping sped up a notch as more of his body informed him of its presence and glimpses of memories assaulted him.

He'd been alone, cold, hurt, in the dark. He couldn't sense anything. But...Sam. Sam helped him. He came for him. He fixed him. His little brother had recovered what he'd lost.

But he didn't want to open his eyes, not yet, afraid that his restored sight was just a dream, that he hadn't actually seen his brother's face hovering over him. It _had_ seemed so long ago, like a forgotten dream—nightmare? Yet, there were more memories, memories of sight and hearing: crackling, flames, "Jerk", explosion...the distinct image of Sam, being thrown clear of him, followed by—

His eyes flew open automatically. "Sam!" Dean tried to call out, but his voice had no volume, and it only produced a silent, wheezing cough. Had he imagined hearing the heart monitor?

No, that was still there—his voice just wasn't very strong at the moment. Hadn't he been on a ventilator?But the breathing tube was gone now; he should be able to talk. Before he could clear his throat and try calling again, though, a hand shot out to press against his good shoulder, urging him back to a lying position.

"Whoa, boy, take it easy," a gruff voice rumbled nearby.

That was...not the voice he'd been expecting. Scrubbing a hand across his eyes, Dean blinked owlishly and turned to his right to see a much older, bearded face underneath a tattered baseball cap.

"Bobby?" he was able to croak out this time. "What're you doin' here? Where's Sam?" He started to rise back on his elbows only to be shoved none-too-gently back down again. Obscure flashbacks to binding hands, cold so painful he couldn't think...

"Well, good to see you, too. " The older hunter said, mockingly affronted. "Now stay still, ya idgit, 'fore you hurt yourself more," he ordered. But his eyes softened when Dean shot him a look of pure imploration, and Singer relented. "He was on his last legs. Yer brother just went to get some coffee. Otherwise he hasn't left your side since ya got here."

"How is he? He hurt?" Of course he was asking about his brother's status before his own; Sam always came first.

Recognizing this, Bobby just snorted. "He's all right, Dean. Worried about you, is all." The haggard man looked to be recuperating from his own feelings of uncertainty and concern.

Dean tweaked a smile of relief and sank back into his pillow to wait for Sam to return. Then he remembered Bobby hadn't answered his question. "Why are _you _here, Bobby? When'd you get here?"

Bobby sat back on his chair and crossed his arms, his eyes glinting. "Sam called. Jus' before he went to fetch you and finish off that vengeful spirit. I drove over fast as I could. 'Course, that was before he found you and you got your senses back. Now I'm just here for moral support."

Dean twisted his face in bewilderment. Sure, Bobby only lived a few states over, but still... "Wait, how long has it been since...?"

Bobby grimaced. "Boy, you've been out for the better part of six days. Sam was tearing out his hair, he was so out of his mind with worry. You almost didn't..." He trailed off and averted his gaze, letting Dean fill in the blank.

Dean was looking down and kneading absently at the stiff, white sheets next to his legs. He vaguely remembered... _Cold. Voices. Voice. Touch. Anguished pleading._ He clenched his jaw and raised his eyes to meet Bobby's. "Tell me," he demanded.

Bobby hesitated, but, knowing it would only be harder for Sam to tell Dean, he continued. "Well, you'd finally gone into shock, and you were suffering from hypothermia along with dehydration by the time you got here. Needed surgery and a blood transfusion for yer cuts. Not to mention you came down with a heckuva case of pneumonia." Dean's eyes were hooded, stoic. "And to top it all off, once we got your body temp up, it kept right on goin' and went through the roof a couple times from the infection." The weary man sighed. "All in all, not a fun 'coupla' days. For any of us."

Not recollecting much of any of this, just indistinct rushes of sensation, Dean just stared at his hands and nodded. A laden silence fell between the two friends. Dean rubbed thoughtfully at his freshly-shaven chin, then swiped a heavy hand over his combed-over hair with annoyance, partly because he still felt so weak. He was starting to wonder if Sam had gone across town to get coffee when the younger brother's stooped frame appeared in the doorway.

When he looked up and spotted Dean, Sam's eyebrows nearly rose to his hairline. "D-dean!" he exclaimed, quickening his long stride to the bed.

Bobby clapped his hands on his knees and stood, tipping a nod to the younger Winchester, which he barely noticed. Shaking his head, Bobby mumbled something about going to the cafeteria before escaping out into the hallway to give the brothers some time alone.

Sam had set the coffee down on the small table, promptly forgotten, and in another second he was leaning on the rail of Dean's bed, raking a hand back through his hair. "Dean. Thank God, you're awake." Emotion colored his voice, and his emo-eyes were out in full force as he scanned Dean for any indication of discomfort. His gaze moved back up to Dean's face so he could read him. "How d'you feel?"

Dean reveled in the sight and sound of his little brother, but quickly looked away so he wouldn't be caught staring. He shrugged in answer to Sam's question. "Been better, been worse." He tenderly massaged his bandaged chest, idly noticing the IV drip hooked up to the inside of his elbow.

A grasp checked his hand from touching the bandages more. Sam softly chided, "Dude, don't mess with that. You had to have surgery to stitch it up, and then infection set in, and you..." Dean saw his Adam's apple bob as he choked up.

Dean rotated his hand so he could seize Sam's, palm to palm, for a moment. "Hey, no chick-flicks. It's okay, Bobby already told me." He moved to release his hand and set it on his stomach.

Sam ducked his head and clamped his fingers around Dean's so he couldn't pull back like he was about to. But he didn't say anything, and Dean let him cling for a moment. He could relate, and he was suddenly reminded of brokenhearted sobs that had wormed their way into and squeezed at his own chest all those hours...days ago?

He swallowed back the lump in his throat, and, trying to lighten the mood, Dean asked, "So, you get it?"

Sam's head came up. "Get what?"

Dean threw his arms up, mindful of his shoulder. "The spirit, doofus. You sure Warren's bought the farm for good, now? Bit the dust? Sleepin' with da fishes? Gotta say, man, can't say I'd be disappointed."

Sam spluttered a slightly hysterical laugh. With a vague gesture at Dean's features, he replied, "You even have to ask?"

Dean snorted and smirked down at his lap. "Nah, guess not."

Contrary to Dean's intentions, Sam's expression drooped slightly. "Aw, man, I totally forgot to ask, you know, with everything else that... You havin' any...problems with your sight? Your hearing?" he prodded fervently.

Dean was already shaking his head in the negative. "No, they're fine." He aimed his gaze down to the sheets again. "Feels great, actually. You know, to see and hear again." He tilted his head back against the pillow, slowly tracing a finger in a mindless, circular motion on the white fabric. "I know it was only a few days, but, uh..."

Sam's eyes shone. "I'm glad it's not permanent, Dean. I mean, if it was, if I couldn't find a way to fix it, of course I woulda...you know." He let his eyes fall, twisting his hands self-consciously and picking at his cast.

Dean drunk in the sight of him, now that Sam wasn't looking at him. Sam looked unhurt, except for a small, white bandage above his eyebrow and the minor squint of his eyes that betrayed a headache. He'd scrunched his nose with leftover feeling, and below his eyes there were dark circles, indicating how much he had—that is, hadn't—slept the last few days.

The corners of Dean's mouth curled up genuinely. "Yeah, I know you woulda. I 'woulda' done the same for you." He paused. "Thanks, for, you know..." he offered with a tilt of his head.

Sam peeked up at him, flashing his own smile, and the awkwardness in the brothers' words—both said and unsaid—wasn't uncomfortable.

For a few seconds, anyway. Dean recalled deciding, in one of his more desperately longing moments back in the cellar, to tell Sam about what their dad had told him. But... His smile slipped at the reminder. He couldn't. It was his secret to keep; for now, at least, if not forever. He didn't want to inflict that burden on Sam any sooner than he had to, so he wouldn't bring it up until he had no choice. He could fulfill his big-brother role by protecting Sammy in more ways than one, especially now that his sight and hearing were back in working order.

Instead, to change the subject, Dean spoke up, "Hey, so, what was up with the house? I mean, I know you torched the place, but why did it go all kablooey all of a sudden?" He mimed the explosion with his hands.

Sam looked bemused. "The house? Oh, yeah, uh, it was in the newspapers. Turns out the 'folks' had a few spare propane tanks in the basement. When the rest of the basement went up, so did they." His expression turned sheepish, and he shrugged. "Didn't bother checking the place out before lighting a match to it."

The elder Winchester hitched his shoulders in return. "You didn't know. It got the job done, and we didn't get blown sky high. Too much. Hey, gotta give you points for being thorough, right?" He sobered a minute. "You're sure you're alright? You were knocked out for a minute there."

Sam was already waving it off. "I'm fine, Dean. Didn't even get a concussion."

Dean accepted that; it _had _been nearly a week since the cellar, and Sam hadn't gotten hurt besides being tossed around. "So, when do we get to break out of this place before they figure out our insurance is a scam?"

Sam finally sat down on the chair. "I'm surprised the doc hasn't been in to check on you, yet. He said that once you woke up, you'd have to stay an extra few days, just to be sure nothing else came up and the infection was under control."

Dean raised an eyebrow and gave Sam a look. "So, what, tomorrow?"

Sam's mouth narrowed. "You realize you almost _died, _Dean. You really scared me, you jerk." His eyes were solemn, but his voice was laced with dark apprehension. Nevertheless, when he searched Dean's face, he sighed in surrender. "Yeah, I guess. Me and Bobby can figure out a way to bust you out. We've already got the nurses' rounds down pat," he joked.

"That's my boy," Dean beamed smartly, clapping Sam on the shoulder, though it was a bit of reach from the bed. "Hey, you should get us some grub. You look like you need it, and God knows I'm starving. And not the mushy, gooey crap the hospital calls food, alright? Sneak in something else." Dean pondered a minute. "Know what sounds good? Pizza. Meat-lover's, extra bacon," he nodded with a token grin. "Oh, and don't forget the pie."

Sam just rolled his eyes and huffed in exasperation, shaking his head. He stood up. "Yeah, no problem. I'll get right on that." He gave Dean a pointed look, not really wanting to leave, but unable to deny such a simple request. The past few days of feeling like he'd give anything for his brother to be okay still haunted him. "_Don't _go anywhere, alright? Bobby should be back any minute if you need anything."

Dean mimicked his eye roll. "Yes, mom." He pulled off the sing-song voice without externally flinching, having not thought about the words first. Sam didn't seem to notice, anyways.

Only his little brother could manage a look that was both bitchy and affectionate. A few more reluctant steps, and he had left the room.

Dean relaxed into the lumpy bed and sighed, closing his eyes. Truth was, he'd been fading fast, and he knew that if he'd fallen asleep, Sam would've stayed. He'd seen it in his eyes. But the kid really did look like he needed something to eat; who knows if he'd had anything besides coffee for the past few—God, _six?_—days. Surely Bobby had forced something on him at some point during his bedside vigil.

Dean was hungry, too, but...it could wait another couple of hours. Hopefully Sam wouldn't wait up for him for lunch.

He turned his head towards the door, and, for the umpteenth time in the last couple weeks, he gave in to the pull of unconsciousness.

…

Mid afternoon the next day, the brothers found themselves in the Impala, cruising through the next town over and counting off the miles the farther they got. They'd ended up signing Dean out AMA, and after Bobby said his goodbyes and 'take care of yourselves, ya idgits', accompanied with an offer to go with them that they'd insisted against, the seasoned hunter had headed off back to South Dakota.

Dean was on some pain killers and antibiotics, and he was still weak from the effects of pneumonia and days of sleep, so Sam wouldn't let him drive. But his brother was content to watch the passing scenery with newfound appreciation. And, hey, at least Dean had gotten a look at how his baby gleamed after being washed a week and a half ago. Huh. It hit Sam again just how long ago that had been, and he ignored the curl of old fear.

Sam had his arm slung casually over the steering wheel. He saw Dean reach over to crank up the radio, and Black Sabbath started thumping through the speakers. Sam grimaced in chagrin, but he didn't argue with any of that 'driver picks the music' crap. He'd give Dean a break, given the last couple weeks. This time.

He glanced over to his brother, who had closed his eyes in order to savor the sound of the music and the bass beating through the car. Sam smiled, elated to have his brother back. He turned his eyes back to stare absently at the monotonous stretch of road in front of him.

He reflected on the happenings of the last two weeks, aghast. Sam couldn't imagine losing one sense, much less being concurrently blind _and _deaf, and he probably wouldn't have handled it nearly as well as Dean—who'd already freaking bounced back, emotionally, from the whole calamity. At least, as far as he could tell from what Dean was letting him see. Guess it helped to throw some dehydration, infection, pneumonia, and near death into the mix. Sam chuckled morbidly.

He would've felt so lonely, without use or purpose; a burden. He most likely would've sulked for a good two weeks...that is, if Dean would let him and didn't smack him upside the head for being so whiny.

But with whatever the Demon had planned for him...maybe being useless wouldn't be such a bad thing. He wouldn't do anyone any good deaf or blind, demons and the hunting community included. He'd choose that over his brother suffering from the same affliction.

But he couldn't voluntarily do that to Dean; his brother would be vulnerable with him like that, not as on guard as he should be. In their life, that was as good as having a death wish. And Dean's sense of duty to his little brother wouldn't allow him to leave, same as Sam would never have left Dean while he was in that condition.

But on the other hand, if Sam being rendered useless saved Dean from being in the crossfire of the Yellow-Eyed Demon...

A smack of his leg startled him out of his reverie. Dean was squinting at him, eyes at half-mast, clearly preparing to take another nap. "Stop thinking so much, dude. You might break something."

Sam mumbled something under his breath that had Dean chortling in surprise before it transformed into a few wet, sickly coughs. Sam watched him warily, but the hacking died down, and Dean settled against the door, mindlessly rubbing his chest. "Bitch," he rasped in an undertone. His eyelids fell shut and his hand dropped to his lap, his hindered breathing soon evening out.

Without taking his eyes off the road for more than a couple seconds, Sam reached behind the seat for a blanket to unfurl over the sleeping form, tucking it around him. Patting Dean's knee, he replied softly with his customary, "Jerk," before facing forward again and turning the music down. A relaxed smile tugged at Sam's lips, and he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat.

Yeah, his brother was back, and that's what counted.

**The end. **


End file.
